


A Break From The Ordinary

by fabricdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brother Mycroft, Bottom Jim Moriarty, CCTV, Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Violence, Dark Sherlock, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub, Dominant Masochism, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Heavy BDSM, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Safeword, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sadism, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Switch Jim Moriarty, Tags May Change, Top Sherlock, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Mycroft worries about Sherlock- constantly.  Everyone assumes they know why, but they don't.  Jim Moriarty pushed things too far when he threatened John, and Mycroft took him in for interrogation- which utterly failed.  Now with the triple  break-ins and Jim being found innocent, he's come to taunt Sherlock at close range...Jim just didn't understand one very big problem: Sherlock... is not an angel.This is a WIP





	1. Give me a week...

“I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t for a minute think I am one.” Sherlock said quietly staring at Jim over tea.

Jim was, if he had to admit, a bit unnerved by the level stare that Sherlock was fixing him with. Up until a few moments ago he’d been looking confused and uncertain– off balance and trying to understand–now he looked… like the sociopath he pretended to be.

“Oh?” Jim sneered, “You and that oh-so-darling pet of yours and his ridiculous morals–”

“You aren’t wrong.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “John’s morals are a problem.”

Now it was Jim’s turn to be confused, “You seemed so attached to him; suddenly lost interest?”

“Oh I’ve always been interested in John, but… to be honest I’d break him.  Still he’s a valued friend– I never had one before.”

Jim very slowly started going over why everything seemed to have changed. “Whatever is this game?”

“My brother tried to break you, didn’t he?” Sherlock’s voice dropped deeper and smoother.

Jim bared his teeth in a smile, “You know he did.”

“No, I didn’t know.  Perhaps I should have when he asked me if he could tell you some things about me… I assumed, I’m afraid–bad habit– that he was simply dealing with you on business.”

“Several weeks in his private dungeons ARE his business.”

Sherlock chuckled and sat back, all long limbs and angelic looks, “You must have been terribly bored.”

“Truthfully yes.” Jim laughed. “Beatings and water and changing the lights around– the only fun I had was giving the Iceman migraines, of course he never sullied his hands on me.”

“Foolish, on his part.” Sherlock cocked his head at him and it looked like a hawk staring at a mouse.  Something had definitely changed drastically and Jim was equal parts afraid and fascinated. “But then I expect he wouldn’t be provoked: he’s terribly restrained that way.” Sherlock sipped his tea and then put the cup aside. “He doesn’t enjoy it: he’s the angel, not me.”

“You… certainly don’t look like an angel right now.”

“As I said, I’m not one.  I simply play on their side– usually.  You must have a very high pain tolerance.”

“An odd question, coming from you.”

“Not so much, really.” Sherlock sat forward, “I propose a change to our game.”

“You would be hard pressed to come up with anything more interesting than what I have planned, darling.”

“How much time did my brother and his people have to break you?”

“Several weeks.”

Sherlock smiled pleasantly, perhaps wistfully, and the hair on the back of Jim’s neck stood up. “Give me one week.” Sherlock said..

Normally Jim would have laughed, but… “One week to do what?”

“Break you.”

 


	2. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock discuss limits  
> (Not beta checked, please bear with me)

Jim laughed, “YOU?! Oh honey, start small…”

Sherlock just looked at him.  Eventually he said, “Set it up with your back up– if you don’t report back in–  in whatever fashion you choose– in one week, well… I’m sure you can arrange something suitable.  We negotiate any hard limits in advance, and then we see.”

“You…” Jim frowned, “what happened to ‘married to my work’?”

“Self-imposed limits to enable me to function in society without… issues.” Sherlock looked him up and down, “My interests tend to be…frowned on.”

“You were rather firm on not having any interests… Irene barely attracted your attention.”

“She attracted a great deal of my attention, I had hoped I might be able to use her as a form of methadone, but it didn’t work.”

“A substitute for heroin?” I thought that was your work?”

“both heroin and my work are substitutes for boredom.  I had hoped she could be as well, but as I said– it didn’t work.  Either I simply can’t content myself with masochism at all, or her style was wrong. I’ve tried it before after all and it never did work well.” Sherlock shrugged, “but you… I’ve always been fascinated with you.”

Jim gasped faintly at the admission. “You’ve been working so hard to deny it… even to pretending you weren’t happy about my lovely puzzles…”

“People… were upset when I was too happy about your gifts.” Sherlock admitted, “And you started involving innocent people too much…”

“No one is innocent Sherly.” Jim grinned.

“We aren’t.” Sherlock snorted, “But don’t pretend.  You also threatened John– he’s off limits.”

Jim snarled, “I NOTICED!  Don’t think I haven’t seen you two… why pretend that you aren’t interested in him?”

“As I said, I’ve been interested in him, but I’d break him.” Sherlock looked at him, “he can’t even admit to being interested in sex with a man, he certainly couldn’t handle my interests.”

“You? What interests could you have that would be so shocking? The kinkiest I can imagine you being is sex in the morgue.” Jim snorted.

Sherlock looked amused, “Far too ordinary… You must have noticed that I don’t precisely recoil from your arrangements– or even the more violent ones?  I’ve been limited most of my adult life in what I am permitted to do– crime scenes afford me a certain vicarious thrill…”

“Permitted? Well you always were rather tame– for all your posturing now…”

Sherlock suddenly looked furious, and just as quickly smoothed the expression away. “When the alternative is being in therapy for years, having Mycroft watching me constantly in case I step out of line, and the ever present danger of being committed? I do tend to watch my step.  It’s also difficult to find someone willing to deal with my interests consensually who negotiates their limits clearly.”

Jim was beginning to believe that this was real, and if so it was far from boring. “And your interests are?”

“I like to push people to their limits, I like to find out what makes them come apart and what makes them respond– I’m very good at manipulating people when I bother– and I have a particular fondness for blood…” Sherlock smiled as he saw the interest play across Jim’s face.

“Really? I did say we were alike…” the smile left Jim’s face, “But you ran off with that pet of yours.”

“He’s not a pet… if he were I’d have him collared and leashed.”

“I still think I’m out of your league, Sherlock– I rather like being the one with the knife.”

“I’m not averse to letting you have a turn with the hilt end, if it’s negotiated properly, but thus far I’m much more interested in dishing it out than taking it.”

Jim paused and then quietly asked, “Do you have any idea the lengths I have gone to to avoid being bored, Sherlock? I’ve tried almost everything– it’s boring.”

“Then you aren’t afraid to give me a week to prove you wrong.”

“Do you actually know what you’re doing? Sex never seemed to be your thing…”

“Sex, in and of itself is boring– mind numbingly so.  I can certainly handle the physical side of that better by myself if I want,” Sherlock shrugged. “As to my experience? I am currently permitted,” he said bitterly, “Membership in a very exclusive and private club that supposedly caters to my tastes– but they also report back to Mycroft and my family: I can hardly relax.”

“Is that where Mycroft gets his ideas for threats?” Jim laughed, “I had wondered… if so you’re more experienced than I thought, but still…”

“Mycroft isn’t a sadist; he’s simply interested in control.  If all you wanted was to be a ruthlessly controlled submissive? Mycroft would be far better than I, and his tastes are better accepted– at least in my family.”

“Actually I got the impression he liked hearing me suffer.” Jim smiled sharply and then tllted his head back and gave a gasping moan… and watched Sherlock for his reaction.

Sherlock laughed.

“Oh very nice,” he actually applauded slightly, “I’m sure that got Mycroft going.”

Jim frowned, that was quite disappointing. “But not you?”

“It doesn’t have the tremor of the vocal chords characteristic of pain, nor the faint wheeze of compressed breathing… there’s no real distress in it, merely a rather pleasant noise.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “I know the human body very, very well.”

Jim couldn’t help the smile that stole over his face, “Well, better than your brother, apparently, that one always got his pupils to dilate.”

Sherlock preened at the favorable comparison to his brother and then continued, “Limits? Or do you need time?”

“What are your limits?” Jim reflected back at him.

“Nothing permanently damaging– nothing that inhibits the function of my transport– nothing to hands or face ever, and I don’t tolerate boredom or sensory deprivation well at all. I prefer marks to be concealable easily beneath my clothing– even something as simple and vanilla as a bruise on my neck would cause problems in my life.” Sherlock looked thoughtful, “Obviously drugs are off limits unless I approved them specifically.”

Jim blew out a breath.  He’d been expecting hesitation, or revealed nerves… “But masochism didn’t do it for you?”

“It hasn’t.  It’s better than being bored, but… that’s all I can say for it.” he shrugged, “Drawing a knife down someone deeply enough to draw blood? Watching the blood flow in a fine line and eventually drip depending  on how I have them tied… allowing them to move, or not move  and keeping someone on the edge of desire and fear…” Sherlock saw the stunned look on Jim’s face. “You thought I was lying?”

“I thought you were telling the truth as you understood it,” Jim corrected, “But people fool themselves all the time.”

“True.”

“Given the level of repression you were talking about, your interests could have been very… bland… and still frowned on.”

“Your limits?” Sherlock waited.

“The same as yours with minor exceptions.”

“And that is?”

“Sensory deprivation is fine, as long as someone is there, and they touch or provide grounding, and it doesn’t last TOO long.” Jim smiled his maddest smile, “The results from locking me in the dark without contact are lethal…”

“Your parents?”

“Among others.  Not your concern, just don’t do it.  However the one thing I enjoyed in my experiments was being restrained and blindfolded while they touched me– They were very good: I let them live.”

Sherlock looked curious. “I enjoy pressure. It’s comforting… I wonder if a more comprehensive restraint would work…”

“As I said, Sherly, I’m quite good… you could find out…”

“And as I said, I’m not averse to allowing you to try, but I do know what I like.” Sherlock tilted his head, “One week.  At the end of which if you are still interested in trying your hand on me, we can negotiate a reversal…”

"If you go past my limits, or I don’t turn up, my people will be under orders…”

Sherlock said drily, “I know, I suggested it.  It’s a bit of a safety for me as well– if you recall I’ve been forced to keep my interests rather subdued– I do have some concerns about suddenly being able to indulge.”

Jim shivered with delight. _Win or lose, whether he was any good at it or not, it was a week alone with Sherlock, and no question this would bring him further from the side of the angels– especially if Mycroft objected…_

Jim nodded. “Agreed. I need at least a few days to arrange things.  Also I have to put your planned destruction on hold.”

“I will need a week to make my arrangements.” 

Jim got up and smiled cheerfully, “How much is Mycroft going to hate this?”

“Badly enough that I advise taking extra precautions so that he doesn’t just shoot you.”

Jim smirked, “He hasn’t managed yet.”

“I just gave him more incentive.” Sherlock nodded at him.

Jim walked out whistling cheerfully. 

Sherlock sprawled on the sofa and began making arrangements: his face completely neutral but his mind entirely occupied with plans…

 


	3. Genie in a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft disapproves of Sherlock's plans.

Jim Moriarty showed up at the agreed upon time at Baker Street and was surprised to find the door unlocked–not that a locked door would have slowed him down. He moved up the stairs, carefully avoiding the previously memorized creaking spots, and heard not one, but two familiar Holmes voices.

“Boring!” Sherlock groaned, “Seriously, Mycroft?”

“The risks are entirely unacceptable, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice was tense and tight.

“We already went over the risks as they stood, brother dear.” Sherlock’s voice practically dripped with venom. “I fail to see how permitting me my own solution to the problem is any worse.”

Jim made sure he was artfully posed in the doorway when he spoke up, “Hello, Iceman, I’m surprised to see you out and about on such a sunny day–aren’t you afraid you’ll melt or something?”

Mycroft glared at him, stood up, and stalked over. “This was your idea, I know it was!”

Jim laughed at him, “Really?” He looked over at Sherlock, “Did you hear that? It was my idea…” He looked back at Mycroft, “Tell me Mikey, WHAT exactly was my idea?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! First Irene, and now THIS? Leave!” Mycroft hissed down at him.

Sherlock got up from the chair. “I’ll get the tea. Do ignore my brother,” he said, and went off to the kitchen.

Mycroft stood there blocking Jim’s way.

“Mycroft…” Jim let his voice drift into a richer Irish drawl. “Did you know that if I get bored enough there are sometimes unexpected explosions? Explosions that might possibly target people you need?” He glanced pointedly past him to the table. “You bore me Mycroft–you always have. Now, are you going to continue to be rude as well as boring? Or can I get my tea?”

Mycroft stiffly moved aside. Jim picked up his bag and came in. Mycroft looked in confusion at the luggage.

Jim sat himself down in the chair obviously set up for a guest and crossed his legs. Sherlock came back in with a tea tray.

“Either stay and sit down, Mycroft, or go back to your office,” Sherlock drawled. “I’ll send you off with some of Mrs. Hudson’s iced biscuits.”

Mycroft came back and sat down in the chair he had vacated. “I know he talked you into this, and you think it’s a good idea, but it’s a VERY bad idea and not at all safe–”

“He didn’t talk me into it, as you very well know and don’t want to admit,” Sherlock said as he poured tea and handed it to Jim and then, after a pause, poured tea for Mycroft as well.

“Whatever do you think is going on that’s so unsafe for Sherly?” Jim put on his flat American accent: he had noticed it bothered Mycroft–sure enough, he winced.

“How much–” Mycroft started to snarl at Jim and Sherlock shoved a plate of frosted biscuits into his hands.

“First you try to bribe John to spy on me, and now you try to bribe Jim to leave me alone?” Sherlock snorted. “Predictable.”

“Won’t work,” Jim said cheerfully. “I’m more interested in not being bored than the money. Now, if you could come up with something that was more interesting you might have something, but I doubt you can,” Jim smirked over his tea cup. “You almost bored me to tears in interrogation.”

Mycroft snorted in disbelief. “You weren’t **bored**.”

“Did you really fall for his gaspy little moan?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully.

“What?” Mycroft sounded scandalized– or shocked: disturbed anyway.

Jim obligingly gave a faint gasp and then a smothered crying noise, followed by a faint moan with his mouth invitingly open. Mycroft’s hand tightened dangerously on his tea cup and yes, indeed, his pupils started to dilate.

Sherlock stared at him and then looked at Jim, “Damn, you were right.”

Mycroft ate a glazed biscuit with perhaps unwarranted aggression as he tried not to show anything.

Jim was smirking at him. “It was fun playing with you for a while, but you never…” he licked his lips, “…followed up. A boy could believe you didn’t CARE…”

“I suggested that since you–or rather, your people–had failed to discourage his plans, that he give me a try at it.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “We’d already calculated a sixty percent chance of this ending with Jim’s suicide out of sheer boredom after he finished with his plans–”

Mycroft almost choked on his biscuit and glanced quickly at Jim, who looked curious but unalarmed.

“Only sixty?” asked Jim.

Sherlock shrugged, “Not knowing what else you had to occupy yourself…”

“Huh…” Jim looked thoughtful and picked up a frosted biscuit. “I’d put it at more like eighty…”

Mycroft stopped and stared at him, “What…?”

“Probably shoot myself after getting Sherlock to commit suicide or having him shot by the police… Of course, evading your assassins could be fun too, so maybe not,” Jim mused, looking pleased off in the direction of the skull.

“Suicide or suicide by Secret Intelligence Assassins,” Sherlock shrugged. “A colossal waste of both of our lives, really.”

“I did try to convince you to run off to my side, Sherly…” Jim smiled and sipped his tea. “But you were so hung up on Johnny Boy.”

Sherlock was watching Mycroft as he spoke. “As I said, he can barely tolerate the idea that he might want to have sex with me–keeps denying it so vehemently that it’s beginning to be pathetic; getting him involved with anything non–” Sherlock stopped talking as Mycroft’s eyes closed and his plate slipped out of his hands. Sherlock caught it before it fell.

“Drug in the tea?” Jim asked curiously. “I couldn’t taste it.”

“No, the heat tends to degrade most drugs,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “It was in the frosting.”

“Really?” Jim looked down at the biscuit he’d been nibbling on. “Good job then, quite unnoticeable under the lemon flavor.”

“Do finish it,” Sherlock said politely. “Unless you prefer to take it straight?” he asked as he settled Mycroft comfortably and made certain he wouldn’t choke.

Jim looked amused and licked the icing off the biscuit. “I do like frosting… and I’m very good with my tongue.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’ve noticed.”

“My luggage has a few changes of clothing and a handful of my own toys–in case they were needed,” Jim offered politely. “Just so we are clear, I upgraded the orders: if I don’t check back in properly… well…”

Sherlock waved him off. “Please, let’s not waste our time. I’m certain you have plans in place and so do I.” He got up and pulled Jim out of his chair.

“Now how did I not notice my legs not working? That’s a very clever drug: you really have to tell me about it!” Jim’s eyes were bright and he looked delighted as Sherlock half carried him into his bedroom.

“Here?” Jim said slowly. “Unexpected…”

“Oh, of course not, Jim–that’s the drugs fogging your mind. Just stripping us both and taking precautions against being tracked–I don’t want your men or my brother’s interfering.”

“Oh…” _That makes sense._ Jim slid off into a pleasant sleep.

*

“Mycroft?” John’s voice pulled him out of a very pleasant nap… _Wait…_

With effort he opened his eyes. “Jhnn?” He blinked; his reactions felt slow.

John blurred and there were lights in his eyes, and then the taste of coffee on his tongue. Eventually, he was able to focus on Doctor John Watson, mouth pressed in a thin line, taking his pulse and feeding him sips of coffee.

“Doctor? I was drugged? Moriarty…”

“According to the note I found: Sherlock.” John sighed, “He has a bad habit of drugging people, doesn’t he? Can you explain what’s going on?”

“…Give me the note.”

John handed it to him. The first part, in English, explained that Mycroft had been drugged and how to treat him, and simply stated that Sherlock was well and would be gone for about a week. The second part was in French and told Mycroft that Sherlock insisted that he be left alone “no matter what your opinion of my personal inclinations.”

Mycroft sighed and sat back.

John sat down and looked at him. “You both know I don’t speak French.”

“It was a message to me–I believe Sherlock wished it to be private.”

“Then he shouldn’t have left it on the same note with the drug notes to me.”

“As you said, you don’t speak French.”

“Google translate,” John said, smiling tightly. “Now tell me what sexual tastes he’s referring to and why that involves drugging you and running off so you can’t follow him, and why YOUR first concern was Moriarty.”

Mycroft groaned.

“And before you say anything: I’m not a Holmes, but both of you keep underestimating ordinary people and ordinary resources. If I had to, I could show the note to Greg: he speaks French.”

“He does?” Mycroft found himself momentarily distracted by that.

“Lestrade? He has family in France, actually– grew up speaking it. Now… what’s going on?”

“I offer you one last chance to not find out.”

“Oh… That good, is it?” John settled back into his chair. “Go on.”

Mycroft twisted his hands, realizing suddenly that his umbrella had been moved out of reach. “Sherlock had extensive therapy as a young man…”

“Because of the drugs?”

“That as well, but… no. I honestly think he may have turned to drugs in part to quiet his… problems.”

“Sexual problems… except Sherlock doesn’t have any–sex, I mean.”

“It’s not sex, per se.” Mycroft pursed his lips, thinking. “To be blunt, Sherlock is a sadist.”

“Uh… no.” John shook his head, “He may be callous, but he never harms anyone.”

“He goes to a BDSM club once a week, carefully monitored. It was part of the suggestion from his therapist–a sort of maintenance dose–and as long as he is kept busy with cases and otherwise occupied, he doesn’t actually indulge much– hardly any at all the last year. You… have been very good for him: I honestly thought him incapable of having a friend.”

John was sitting there with his mouth open; he shut it and finally asked, “Tea?”

“Yes, but do wash the pot: it may be how I was drugged.”

John scrubbed the pot out and eventually came back with tea.

“All out of biscuits apparently.”

Mycroft stared at the table. “Oh, it was in the biscuits.” _Obvious_! He blamed the drug.

“What?”

“The drug–it was in the biscuits. The lemon frosting would have concealed any taste.”

John blinked several times before returning doggedly to the topic. “Right… So, you’re saying that Sherlock is a sadist in the BDSM sense? And goes to a… sex club?”

“It’s not quite that, but yes.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Monitored?”

“They report to me and I consult with the family therapist.”

“Yeah, no wonder you don’t get along: that’s obscenely rude. Your brother’s sex life shouldn’t be being reported on!  And if Sherlock knows he’s being watched–”

Mycroft suddenly looked tired. “Doctor Watson, my brother dissected small animals–alive–as a child. He cut his arm open to study the blood, and when he was in university and unfortunately was given a great deal of alcohol and drugs–I believe with the idea of taking advantage of him–he ended up nearly killing someone with a knife.” He looked at John flatly, “Not in self-defense, but because the blood was fascinating and he was drugged enough to not realize how much blood they were losing– at least I hope he didn’t realize.”

“Jesus!” John stared at him with wide eyes, “But that was on drugs…”

“His personal predilections tend toward extreme risk. He experimented with masochism–”

“Irene?”

“I actually would have forgiven almost anything from that woman if she could have kept his attention… It’s far safer and requires less potential cover-up than…” Mycroft shook his head. “Our family has had this come up before: it’s… been a problem.”

“Why… I mean, he never…” John was trying not to flush. “He never made a pass at me…”

Mycroft stared down into his coffee. “He actually likes you, John, and has expressed repeated concern that finding out his personal tastes would drive you away. He has been quite circumspect in the last year in any case, and barely indulging at the club…” He sighed. “Moriarty, however, appears to have… somehow… coaxed this side of him back out.”

“So where does that maniac fit in here?” John was looking around warily as though he might come suddenly out of a doorway saying that he was changeable.

“He and I were having tea with Sherlock when I was drugged,” Mycroft said tiredly. “Sherlock apparently arranged to go away with him for a week and doesn’t want me to know where.”

“Away? With MORIARTY?!”

“Yes. Sherlock purchased a large amount of bondage equipment and medical supplies, as well as a truly terrifying array of sharps–it’s what alerted me.”

“He’s going to let Moriarty cut him up?” John jumped to his feet.

“Ah, no... I believe he plans to cut Moriarty up, as you put it.”

John slowly sat back down. “Moriarty doesn’t seem the type to… not have plans to stop that…” John ended up muttering, “Snipers, at least.”

“I believe they had an arrangement. I have no idea if Moriarty will keep his word–he might.”

“To… go somewhere and let Sherlock… do things to him?” John stared at the tea and muttered about drugs.

“Yes.”

“Well… Moriarty deserves it, I suppose… and I guess… it’s voluntary…?”

“I am not in the slightest concerned for the well-being of James Moriarty. It’s Sherlock I worry about.”

“You think Moriarty will… uh… turn the tables?” Somewhere John felt he had lost all sense of this conversation– possibly when he came home and found an unconscious Mycroft.

“No, I think that once Sherlock stops restricting himself, he will find it very difficult to stop. The other members of my family with… similar tastes… have usually had to be committed.” Mycroft stood up. “It’s very difficult to put the demon back in the bottle.”

“Genie…” corrected John by reflex.

“Semantics,” Mycroft said quietly and walked out.

John sat and stared at the wall for a while before he slowly got up and opened up his computer to do some research.


	4. Calibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim wakes up and discussions

Jim woke up with a sensation of comfort and… he stretched tentatively without opening his eyes. _Soft sheets, very comfortable mattress, nude, no restriction on his movement…_

His mind was clear– _which was very, very odd for waking up from drugs._

 _Rested._ That was the odd sensation. He felt rested.

He opened his eyes: he was in a bedroom– _pleasant looking, if a bit bland_ –on a bed with wrought iron bars at the head and foot boards. He began to sit up and felt a faint tug at his neck and slight weight against his wrists and ankles. He pulled one arm out from under the pillow and looked with curiosity at a locked restraint– _heavily padded and well-constructed_ –that wasn’t attached to anything. He brought his hand up to his throat and felt the collar: _padded and not at all tight, but there was a line from it…_

The line went to a large metal box–like a safe–that appeared to be attached to the other side of the bed.

Jim very hesitantly tried to sit up and the line played out of the box, although not without a faint pull. _Tension leash–I wonder how far it goes…_

The door opened and Sherlock walked in. He was dressed casually–for him–in slacks and a shirt open by several buttons.

“You must have been underslept.” Sherlock stood at looked at him with the concentrated attention Jim had only ever seen him apply to crime scenes.

“I’m chronically underslept,” Jim purred up at him happily. “Forget this idiocy with crime solving, darling–you need to market that drug. I feel wonderful.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “I would hope so; I only had limited ability to test it, but it seemed pleasant when I used it.”

“Honey, you could probably bribe several of my snipers into leaving your friends alone if you just promised them a way to get me to SLEEP!” He stretched out again happily. “I admit this is not at all what I expected…”

“And I admit I changed my plans after our first discussion: you afforded me a rare opportunity and I would hate to waste it.”

“Well, unless you plan to have me soil these lovely sheets I do need to get to the toilet…”

Sherlock nodded his head graciously at an open doorway, “By all means. Your leash permits you access that far and a bit more.”

Jim got up cautiously– _no, no balance issues either_ –and went to the bathroom. The line gave a faint dragging sensation against his neck as he moved away from the bed, but it would likely only be unpleasant if he kept the tension on for a length of time. There was a toilet, a bidet, and a sink, as well as an assortment of medical supplies, and some very soft towels and washcloths.

Jim came back. “Sherlock, unless we have VERY different ideas of sadism, I think I’m a bit puzzled.”

Sherlock waved at the bed and brought a chair over. Jim settled himself on the bed–releasing the subtle tension on his neck–and Sherlock sat down.

“You have been accustomed to eluding Mycroft for at most a year? Two?”

“About that,” Jim agreed. “Why?”

“I started having to evade his scrutiny as a child, and it became increasingly necessary for me to do so as I got older. I have FAR more experience at avoiding his notice than you do, and I am much better at it.”

“Then how did he know the day I was showing up? Hardly a good job… unless…” Jim cocked his head. “Why did you want him to know?”

Sherlock smiled, “Precisely. I needed him there when you showed up.”

“Rubbing his nose in it?”

“I admit to a bit of that,” Sherlock ducked his head, suddenly looking shy and young again, “but mostly I needed access to his personal communications to reroute the CCTV…”

Jim’s eyes widened, “Oh… Oh, you beautiful creature, you…”

Sherlock blushed faintly from the praise and understanding of an equal.

“Tell me!” Jim bounced up and almost crawled into Sherlock’s lap, tugging in an annoyed fashion when the line pulled.

Sherlock touched something in his pocket and the line went slack. Sherlock said quietly, “Hands behind you.”

Jim tilted his head curiously but decided to do so. Sherlock tugged on the cuffs and there was the click of a lock; before Jim could respond to that, Sherlock pulled him further into his lap.

“I’m hardly going to try to strangle you with my bare hands, Sherly.”

“Maybe I just like you restrained.” Sherlock’s voice dipped lower and he bent Jim backwards until it was only Sherlock’s arms keeping him from falling off his lap. Jim flailed slightly at the lack of control and the threat of…

 _Ah, a reaction to demands? Or just asserting control?_ Jim stilled and relaxed. “Please tell me what you did?”

Sherlock nodded in response. “I looped all the CCTV cameras in a one-block radius–and his personal bugs–for two hours. I also caused glitches in over eighteen locations where I could have taken you.” Sherlock smiled pleasantly. “My network blocked the street as well, and several delivery vehicles and taxis had individuals that COULD have been the two of us in disguise travel out of the area.”

Jim shivered in delight and Sherlock brought him back up fully into his lap. Jim sighed, “I told you: you’re me… I only wish I could see his face…”

“If you are VERY good, I’ll let you: I have a backdoor tap into his cameras.”

Jim made a whimpered moan that was the more realistic twin to his fake one. “You’re making me hard, honey…”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” Sherlock sounded sincere. “Would you care to hear the plans for the week now?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t tell me.”

“I’m not my brother, and you are hardly anyone ordinary to be played with by upsetting your time clock.”

“They did, rather–your brother’s people.” Jim shrugged.

“This is your room. You will never be hurt here; you may also choose to rest here.”

“A… safe area?” Jim frowned. “And rest? Darling, I believe you have sadism confused with vacation– not that I mind.”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered and the smile on his face would have terrified anyone else, but Jim just found it fascinating.

“You get three hours a day in which you may do as you please, but, while you can ask for that time, I may wait until something is concluded to grant it to you.”

“So I get three hours to sleep?” Jim said trying to understand this rather perplexing arrangement.

Sherlock drew his fingers down Jim’s throat. “If you want to use those hours for sleep, you can; or you can ask for comfort, or rest, or food, or time to read… Otherwise, you will live by my schedule for the rest of the week–including when you sleep.”

“I have to admit, I don’t get it.”

“You will.” Sherlock’s one arm was still supporting his back and the other had dipped lower to play gently with his nipples. “I do want to clarify a few of your limits…”

“Oh?”

“As I said, I enjoy blood, and sharps are a great part of that. There is no guarantee about scarring even if I am careful, although I will keep it easily concealed… but how are you with piercings?”

Jim considered. _Those would be much more likely to leave permanent marks even if removed._ After a brief consideration he nodded slowly, “I would prefer to discuss any genital piercings and the risks–some are likely acceptable, some not so much–but generally? As long as it can be covered by business casual I don’t care.” Jim smiled his most predatory smile, “I think you’d look lovely in piercings, Sherlock…”

Sherlock just shrugged. “Incidentally, I don’t bother to punish most balking or resistance–I simply stop it: fair warning.”

Jim gave him a puzzled look, but then Sherlock pulled on his collar and did something to the lock and the line fell away. He pulled him to his feet. “Come along.”

Jim was maneuvered in front of him, Sherlock’s hand on his elbow, out the door and down a hallway to a much heavier door. _Honestly, this shows every sign of being insanely boring–well, boring if it was anyone but Sherlock. At least the man seemed inclined to chat, and annoying Mycroft was worthwhile in any–_ His thoughts were cut off abruptly as they walked into the other room.

Polished wood, rich leather, and the floors sealed under several layers of varnish–the room would have looked quite posh and cozy except for the fact that there were more items suited for bondage than relaxing with a book. Restraint points were discrete but everywhere, and the bondage gear itself looked like it was of the highest quality.

“This… is not entirely new,” Jim said slowly. Sherlock had allowed him to pause just inside the doorway.

“Most of it is not. I did buy a few things for this week.” Sherlock smiled and moved him forward to a padded bench with restraint points. “This, for instance.”

“The cross is older, the restraint points, the floor varnish… but the pleasant furniture, the horse, the cabinet, and I assume most of the tools: that’s new.”

“Oh, quite. My brother’s expression when I purchased the sharps was… expressively unhappy.” Sherlock moved him to a restraint that was obviously built to have him standing or kneeling with his hands in front of him. He moved him back to it and attached one wrist before uncoupling his wrists and having him turn around to fasten the other one.

“No… you definitely are not new at this…” Jim said after watching the expertise with which he was maneuvered.

“As I said, I have been avoiding my brother’s surveillance for some time. Monitored sessions with paid submissives reporting on my every move do not excite me.”

Jim made a face. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. He gets a report after every session, and thinks my lack of enthusiasm for attending and bland activities are ‘improvement’.” Sherlock made a retching noise.

Jim was honestly appalled. “Honey… I can have him picked off in pieces if you like, really…”

“I appreciate the thought,” Sherlock said as he moved one of the cabinet on wheels over and opened it–Jim could just see an array of crops, flogs, and strikers–“but the sad thing is, he’s doing it out of concern for me and trying to keep me from losing control and ending up being committed, or assassinated.”

“I still can–”

“I prefer not to waste my time discussing my brother. Now please do tell me how these two compare?” And Sherlock struck him across the back with something that felt almost sharp.

A hiss escaped him because of the surprise. “What?”

“Riding crop: stiff, and fairly sharp stinging pain,” Sherlock said as though he was describing an entrée. Then something else hit him, less sharp but not light. “Soft leather strap: more of a thud and a wider area of bruising. Comparison?”

“Honey, I have no idea what you think this is doing but I’ve been hit harder than that by accident.”

Sherlock moved to in front of him and looked amused, still holding both items. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you–yet. I asked you to compare the sensations.”

“O-kay… Why?” He saw a flicker of annoyance cross Sherlock’s face and pointed out, “Unless I know what you want, I don’t know how to compare them or…”

“Hmm… Alright,” Sherlock sighed. “I’m unaccustomed to asking, I suppose, so it’s only reasonable that you didn’t expect to answer. Which do you prefer? They were similar strikes. Which pain is merely uncomfortable and which one could be pleasant if done properly?”

“I didn’t know my enjoyment was involved.” Jim frowned and tugged curiously at the restraints– _no give at all._

“It will be at certain points,” Sherlock nodded. “After our initial discussion I revised my plans. I usually just deal out pain when I have the opportunity; the softer aspects are left to my reported sessions because it makes my brother happier to hear that I am doing something other than hurting someone. In your case, however… I rarely meet anyone that I actually want to spend any time with, who is worth talking to, that I am permitted to hurt. Therefore, I have scheduled our week to involve both pain and pleasure–sometimes at the same time. Now then: which of these sensations would you prefer to be feeling if you are permitted to orgasm?”

“You’re running this like an experiment…” Jim said looking down with a peculiar smile. _It was honestly rather exciting that I hadn’t anticipated any of this… Novelty was always worthwhile… and he wants to spend time with me?_ Jim looked up at him and stopped, fascinated, by the intensity on Sherlock’s face.

“Of course. I have had no time to learn your tastes, limits, and responses. The majority of today I have scheduled to…” Sherlock laughed slightly as he tapped the riding crop lightly against Jim’s shoulder, “calibrate the equipment.”


	5. you were warned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a glimpse at Mycroft's worries and someone forgot the clear warning about PTSD

_Ow, ow, ow, damn it, ow, ow, bastard, ow, should have hired him, ow, ow, ow, tricky son of a, ow…_ The litany went on in his head as Sherlock steered him back to his room.

“Sherly, you have very nearly managed to combine my two LEAST favorite things!” Jim growled as Sherlock locked his collar to the tether and unlocked his hands.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked rather casually as he reapplied cream to a few of the marks.

“Pain and boredom!” Jim snarled.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “How can you be bored? I could tell you weren’t properly anticipating–”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you could teach your brother’s idiots a thing or two, and it’s very effective, and minor pain done over and over is annoying, but eventually it’s just ‘Great, what will I get hit with next?’ and it gets tedious!” Jim grumbled, “And if you want the honest answer for your studies, the worst part is that I’m going to have to sleep on something that hurts, and I’ll be stiff in the morning, and I’m anticipating that, and it’s worse than the damn pain now!”

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. “The stiffness is worse? Or lying on it is worse?”

Jim groaned. “I take it back, you’re a robot.”

“No, I seriously have only had two types of people I’ve gotten to do this to: the ones who really are useless at giving me any data, and the ones who mostly beg and scream. This is fascinating.”

Jim looked suspiciously at him. “WHEN did you do this to someone who mostly begged and screamed?”

“Admittedly, I haven’t done quite this much calibration work… but one of the paid submissives was REALLY into riding crops: she didn’t safeword at all and we had to call an ambulance.” Sherlock sighed, “Of course, my brother blamed me for not paying sufficient attention and seemed convinced that I had intended to send her to the hospital…”

“Her own fault for not safewording,” Jim shrugged and hissed slightly.

“I thought so.” Sherlock sighed, “Wait.”

 _I’m going somewhere?_ Jim thought with a snort. He set about doing the stretching that might help, especially his fingers since his hands had stiffened.

Eventually, Sherlock came back in with a box of instant cold packs–most of which he left in the bathroom–and a computer pad. He expertly snapped the cold packs and handed them to Jim to shake and put on the worst bruises.

“Thank you?” Jim looked at him oddly. _He didn’t look guilty, or worried, so…_ “Why the ice packs?”

“This was calibration and testing. Some areas bruised more than anticipated. Also, in an ideal world you would have time to heal more before I got to play; sadly, I don’t have that time.” He was doing something with the pad and finally looked up with a smile.

“First… This was his expression when he saw the sharps I had ordered–most of which were sent by careful indirection to the other locations they will be searching…” he smiled and held out the pad.

~

Mycroft Holmes was staring in appalled horror at something just under the camera. He closed his eyes in that “about to have a migraine” look Jim remembered from interrogation once or twice, and then touched something out of sight on his desk.

“Bryony, I need a trace–”

~

Jim almost purred. “Oh, that’s LOVELY!” He looked up at Sherlock, “So he started tracing then?”

“Yes, but he only found one delivery location–the most obvious and obviously false–so he was still tracing the rest when we vanished.” Sherlock smiled happily. “He will find all but two.”

“They’re here?”

“No. I already had a fairly full complement of sharps, and the order I actually placed after our agreement was done through reliable means.” Sherlock had a small, delightfully wicked smirk. “I just wanted him to fret when the two worst looking delivery orders couldn’t be found–at least, I don’t think he’ll find them.”

“Worst looking?”

“They included things that cannot be used on the human body without rather drastic injury.” Sherlock shrugged. “I have no intention of ever using such things, but for some reason my brother will believe I would.” Sherlock shrugged again. “Mostly things you might need for actual butchering or an autopsy–or possibly carpentry. Some were antiques, in fact.”

Jim started giggling. “Where did you send those two deliveries?”

Sherlock looked innocent. “Molly got one–including the antique dissection tools–and the other went to a friend who is a butcher in France.”

Jim cackled. “Poor, sweet Molly. Well, at least she–”

It was Sherlock’s turn to cackle.

“What?”

“She is very sweet, yes, but I’m guessing you never saw past the obvious?”

“I only dealt with her to get to you.” Jim looked at him suspiciously. “Whyyyyyy…?”

“Molly is my emergency outlet when I can’t stand it anymore.” Sherlock fell onto him on the bed laughing.

“Wait… what?”

“Molly is one hell of a submissive masochist.” Sherlock looked amused, “I actually have to be very careful because it would be too easy to permanently damage her. I try to keep it to mostly verbal…”

“WAIT! You mean all that shoving her around and telling her what to do and–”

Sherlock nodded cheerfully, “It started by accident with my normal behavior and I noticed she got aroused. I arranged for a light session in the morgue after hours and she followed me like an imprinted duck…”

Jim sat back on the bed with a huff. “Damn. I was so busy keeping my act up so you wouldn’t see…”

“Well, it worked: I didn’t.”

“Well, yah, but… you mean I could have done something a bit more entertaining than watch Glee and listen to her rhapsodize about you?”

“She probably would like Moriarty a lot more than sweet gay Jim from IT.”

“Damn.” He sighed. “The problem with having to play a role that well… I take it the Iceman doesn’t know?”

“He would have her transferred to another country if he ever had a hint, I’m sure. Anyway, here… I’ll only show you the highlights, but you can infer the rest, I’m certain…”

~

Mycroft managed to get to his car and back to his office; by the time he got there, at least he felt relatively alert.

“Ianthe, my office please.”

“Yes, Sir.” She never looked up from her texting.

“Sherlock drugged me and escaped, along with Moriarty–whom I saw on premises, so yes, he had access to me unconscious, although I hope he didn’t do anything with Sherlock there.”

“You need to be scanned then, Sir, and drug tested.”

Mycroft winced, “Of course. Begin search.”

…

After several hours of medical exams and intrusive searches he was finally allowed back into his office.

“News?”

“John Watson left several messages; DI Lestrade called; all cameras in a several block radius were looped for at least two hours and we don’t know how; there were unexplained glitches in cameras all over London–the best places to hide torture are flagged; there were sightings of several vehicles with people matching one or both of their general descriptions; and a body matching Moriarty’s description turned up in a morgue and is being evaluated.” She said all of that in a pleasantly professional tone without looking up once.

“Do any of the locations match the area of our missing deliveries?”

She looked up and blinked at him. “Hmmm…” She looked back down and typed thoughtfully. “Yes, three.”

“Prioritize the search there.”

“Sir? One of them is the club you send him to.”

Mycroft looked thoughtful, “Likely a ruse, but have one of our more discreet people check.”

“A club specializing in such activities would be an ideal place to hide”

“Not really; the denizens of such clubs would be more likely to spot unwilling behavior.”

“I believe you said it wasn’t unwilling?”

Sigh. “Point. Move it up in priority.”

“Yes, Sir.” She went out and Mycroft allowed himself to sag faintly. He sent yet another message to his brother’s phone–the tracer on that seemed to have gone missing–and resumed the CCTV search.

~

“Oh, that’s lovely….” Jim sighed. “How long have you had that tap?”

“Hmm? Oh, quite a while. He doesn’t actually keep much on his computer: mostly uses it to send and receive emails–which he deletes–and to write up letters–which he also deletes–so it’s mostly useful for the camera.”

“Surprised he didn’t cover it with electrical tape.”

“He has to have it for video conferencing, and it’s supposedly highly secure.”

“Come over to my side, Sherly, seriously.”

“Annoying older brothers is, I understand, a universal pastime and says nothing about choosing sides. In any event, you need to sleep.”

Jim sighed and closed his eyes. “Leave the bathroom light on.”

Sherlock turned out the main light and went out.

~

Jim was hurting. He wasn’t sure at first whether he was back in his childhood home, or in Mycroft’s cells, or if the cartel had caught up with him again, but he must have made it out safely because he smelled first aid cream and had clean sheets. Someone was walking up on him thinking he was asleep and he waited until they were close enough to touch him, lunging against their own arm, swinging to knock the weapon clear and pushing off the bed to knock them down–just as he’d trained. He had his hands closed around their throat to cut off any cries before he had fully opened his eyes.


	6. you were warned, too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV on the "wake up" and Jim just didn't take Sherlock seriously... but he signed up for a week with no safeword.  
> PLEASE read the tags, seriously.

Sherlock woke up and checked the monitors in Jim’s room. Jim had spent an uncomfortable night despite the ice, tossing a bit and ending up curled on his side. He contemplated whether Jim would end up sleep deprived and was considering whether to offer him drugs to help him sleep or not, and how it would affect the psychology–tricky especially with a mind so unlike the ordinary–as he went to wake him up for breakfast.

Sherlock was rather surprised that Jim didn’t wake up as he walked up to the bed, but then again he realized he had no idea how sound a sleeper Jim was. Sherlock reached out to touch him and Jim struck: he lunged out and shoved Sherlock’s arm aside as he thrust himself full-force off the bed. As he went over backward, a part of Sherlock’s mind processed the smooth movements as indicative of regular training and practice–just before Jim’s hands closed around his throat.

As his own training had taught, Sherlock brought his hands up to break the grip and spare his throat, but he had reacted just a bit too slowly and the optimal response was not going to work. Sherlock shifted his grip to pressure points in Jim’s hands and wrists just as Jim’s eyes’ focused.

For a moment Sherlock looked up into eyes that could have belonged to a shark…

And then Jim’s hands pulled away from his neck as a faintly puzzled expression crossed Jim’s face.

“What on earth did you think you were doing?” Jim asked him.

“Waking–” Sherlock had to pause and cough. “Waking you up for breakfast.”

“Tch!” Jim got up and walked into the bathroom without a backward glance.

Sherlock was slowly sitting up when Jim came back with a few of the cold packs. “Here. Get that on your throat,” Jim said as he tossed him one. “Honestly, Sherl… I did warn you.”

“Did you?” Sherlock snapped the pack, shook it, and placed the blessedly cooling pad to his throat.

“I suppose you didn’t get it. Honestly, I thought you were a BIT cleverer.” Jim snorted and lay down on the bed with an ice pack of his own.

“From what you had said, I thought the bathroom light would be sufficient.” Sherlock had allowed himself to think of Jim as being not very physically capable–obviously incorrect.

“It is, if you give me time to wake up and figure out who you are–or where I am. I wasn’t sure if I was back in your brother’s care,” Jim commented, and then continued thoughtfully, “The bed is much nicer, but I hadn’t had time to orient myself.”

“Well-trained response…”

“Yes, well–I’m still alive. So… now what?”

“A light breakfast and then I get to work with a few items, now that I know what you can handle.”

“I can handle anything you have, honey,” Jim smirked up at the ceiling; he made it sound lewd.

“No, you really can’t. Luckily, I have no intention of going that far.” Sherlock lay there with the cold pack. “Honestly, though, very good reaction time.”

Jim just shrugged.

“I had you in the soft restraints for comfort, but you can’t shower in them. I planned to switch you to the metal restraints this morning. I can always switch you back for sleeping if they are too–”

Jim started laughing. “You’re sweet, Sherly. I have no idea why your idiot brother is worried about you.”

“I suspect seeing a relative put away rather… permanently… made an impression.”

…

Sherlock had efficiently changed his restraints, following the same care he’d shown yesterday. Was it yesterday yet? Well, before he’d slept anyway. The new restraints were plain, unpadded metal and following the change he was able to shower.

“Soup for breakfast?” Jim stared at the bowl of broth and a… “Is that a milkshake?”

“Protein shake. No solids this morning: I prefer not to be thrown up on,” Sherlock said drily.

Jim shrugged and tried both. “Sherl, trust me, combining these two will increase the likelihood of being puked on. They don’t pair well.”

Sherlock gave him a very odd look.

He was taken back to the ‘playroom’ and secured to a padded affair that left him bent over, but fully supported. It was FAR more comfortable than anything Mycroft’s boys had ever put him on–including that cot, honestly; Jim wondered if he could catch a few more hours of sleep. Sherlock started a light tapping sensation across his ass and thighs. _Definitely a nap, then._

_…That was starting to really hurt…_

Jim tried to twist enough to see what the bastard was up to but couldn’t get enough movement. The light rhythm of tapping continued and… It felt like his skin was on fire.

“The hell are you doing?” Jim tried to ask calmly, but it came out as a hiss.

Jim thought he heard Sherlock chuckle and the tapping continued, except now every single touch felt more like it was red hot. Jim gritted his teeth as his ass and thighs felt… he didn’t actually have anything to compare the sensation to. He managed to distract himself from the pain for a few moments by trying to catalog it, but eventually a noise escaped him. _I did NOT…_

Sherlock laughed–it didn’t sound comforting at all–“I’m impressed, but you really should forget about trying to keep quiet.”

Jim tried to respond as he had to Mycroft’s boys–when he deigned to say anything–with a snarky remark, but all that he could manage was a gasping noise and he gritted his teeth again.

The tapping stopped but his skin felt swollen and burned, and then Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and drew it slowly and gently down his back and….

Jim screamed.

…

Sherlock had in fact been more than impressed by Jim’s pain tolerance and control, but eventually Jim’s breathing was erratic, and beginning to become far too shallow, and each inhale was accompanied by a gasping noise that Sherlock had listened for in vain with the calibration tests. _His pain tolerance must be truly incredible… but Jim’s skin was swollen and the blood flow to his skin, combined with the relentless stimulation of the nerves…_

Sherlock placed a hand gently on Jim’s shoulder and smiled as, even that far from the area he had sensitized, Jim’s muscles twitched and shivered under a light touch. He stoked gently across Jim’s back and down across to the deep red skin on his buttocks… There was a moment in which Jim fought for breath and failed–unable to even inhale from pain–and then he screamed.

Sherlock paused to lock the sequence and responses away in his mind palace; even if Mycroft found him now, he had that to treasure.

Sherlock listened as the telltales of pain created the sound so lacking in Jim’s mimicry of a pained gasp.

“That’s what you were trying to mimic. You will likely be better able to fool the ear in future, but you can’t actually make that sound unless your throat is spasming and raw and your lungs are struggling…” Sherlock ran a hand up Jim’s calf and onto the reddened skin of his thigh–Jim made a beautiful keening noise and tried desperately to move away.

It took Sherlock an effort of will to walk away to the supplies. He came back with the bottle of lubricant; Jim jerked in the restraints at the snap of the cap. He poured a generous amount on his hand and fingers: right now Jim was sensitive enough that the roughness of Sherlock’s hands might as well be sandpaper. He trailed a finger over Jim’s thigh and was startled when Jim only hissed through clenched teeth.

“You’re pain tolerance and control is formidable.”

Jim tried to say something but Sherlock simply slid his hand between his thighs. Jim instantly moved his legs apart to avoid contact with the skin on his thighs. Sherlock could tell he realized the problem, but was unable to bear the pain enough to bring his legs back together. Sherlock smiled and ran his slicked hand over Jim’s balls and across to his cock.

It was at least half-hard already from adrenaline and blood flow so close by. Sherlock began stroking him.

“I will gut you like a fish!” Jim snarled, or as much as he could without being able to get a full breath.

“You were planning on killing me before, Jim, and before you threaten me or my friends anymore I suggest you consider what my taking a riding crop to you right now would do.”

Jim went back to clenching his jaw shut. The noises he was making in the back of his throat reminded Sherlock of a Theremin–he made notes for future experiments.

When Sherlock could tell he was as close as he would get in this much pain, he brought his hand down in what would have been a light slap across Jim’s buttocks and squeezed: Jim spasmed and an anguished cry escaped him as he passed out, come spilling over Sherlock’s hand.

The sound, and the feel of Jim under his hand, caused Sherlock to nearly come undone himself: it was beautiful.

…

Jim returned to consciousness blearily. It took him a while to realize he wasn’t strapped to the frame anymore but had been placed ass up on the bed over a pile of pillows. He tried to move, very carefully. His wrists were linked together as closely as they would have been with handcuffs, but far more securely; his collar was attached to the line again, and his legs seemed to be on a hobble chain. _Bastard wasn’t taking any chances this time._

 _I drastically misread the man_. He tried to pick his head up and hissed as his muscles protested. The pain in his ass and thighs seemed to be reduced to ‘very bad sunburn’ levels, but he wasn’t inclined to test it.

“I really am quite impressed…” a familiar baritone voice damn near purred at him from behind his head.

The memory of pain caused him to try to flinch away before he could stop himself.

“Time to get up.” Sherlock sounded amused.

“Seriously, I’m going to kill you slowly.” Jim projected as much menace as he could, given that he was ass up on a pile of pillows and naked in chains.

“First you would have to get loose. Come on, up.” Sherlock took hold of his upper arms and started to haul him backwards.

“You could have had a nice life, you know, marketing sleeping pills. Pity.”

“And you could have had a pleasant life finding safer ways to amuse yourself than coming to the attention of either my brother or myself.”

Sherlock’s clothes brushed Jim’s ass and thigh and he jerked away. “I’m calling those three hours,” Jim snapped.

Sherlock let go of him and stepped back. “Alright,” he said pleasantly enough. “Do you want–”

“I want you to drop dead, but I somehow doubt you’ll oblige,” Jim snarled as he turned to glare at Sherlock, casually dressed and looking at him curiously with a faint smile.

“What happened to you being able to handle anything I have?” Sherlock smirked.

Jim just stared at him levelly. Sherlock touched a control button and Jim’s leash line locked as Sherlock walked away to the door. He unlocked it once he was out of range.

“Three hours, have fun.”

Jim watched the door and counted to five to get his breathing under control, then he walked into a cool shower and tried to take the burning sensation out of his skin–it worked, a little. He carefully turned to look at himself in the reflective, and non-breakable, surfaces, but couldn’t tell any more than that his skin was red and might be darkening in spots: there was no blood, no sign of broken skin.

He did his best to rub the topical pain reliever into his skin, and reluctantly draped himself back over the pillows.

He’d expected Sherlock to hit him, cut him, perhaps even rape him–if you could be said to rape someone who’d walked in to this voluntarily–but he hadn’t expected this. _His brother was afraid. His brother, who had watched me be tortured without anything but mild arousal, was afraid of what Sherlock might do. Sherlock, who had managed to hurt me beyond my ability to be silent, and hadn’t even broken the skin._

Jim began seriously looking for a way to get out of these restraints.


	7. your three hours are up...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your three hours are up...
> 
> Note questions of boundaries and consent.

As Sherlock came into the room, he said, “Your three hours are up.” He wondered what Jim would do. _He hadn’t seemed broken enough to beg…_

He didn’t beg or cower: he somehow managed to convey disdain and annoyance while lying face down on his bed. “You could have untied my hands, you know. I couldn’t put any cream on my ass with my hands like this.”

“Then you should have asked me,” Sherlock said while matter-of-factly unhooking his collar. “Come along.”

“And if I asked now?”

“I told you, you can use your three hours to ask for comfort, or extra food, or rest; now you get what I choose to give you.”

Jim didn’t say anything and he didn’t struggle–he just walked along quietly; his eyes were unreadable. Sherlock wondered what he was thinking: after all, the one time he’d managed this sort of arrangement before the response had been pitiful whining about the fairness of it all… Jim didn’t whine or even protest in response.

When they got back into the play room Jim spoke up again, “When do the days reset, and do I need to take the hours in one block?”

Sherlock almost gasped. _Jim was perfect, no whining, no hesitation or fear, just calculation and adaptation._ “I will let you know, but in general it resets after your sleep cycle, and I hadn’t considered breaking it down… I suppose you could take it in one hour increments if you like.”

Jim didn’t say anything, just tensed slightly looking at everything– _analyzing it again with the new information,_ Sherlock supposed.

“So now you get a choice,” Sherlock said, wondering what his responses would be. He’d tried to predict Jim’s responses and only been right about half the time–it was a marvel, really.

“Hobson’s choice?” Jim drawled.

Sherlock smiled, “No, more of a dilemma…”

“Ah. What then?” Jim was back to feigning disinterest, but Sherlock could almost hear his mind working.

“You can start this session by being fucked–which will hurt, of course, but I assure you that you will orgasm–or you can–”

“Oral sex,” Jim drawled. “Predictable, Sherly, and that’s my choice.”

“You shouldn’t interrupt me, and you really should learn to say thank you more reliably…” Sherlock waited to see what response he would get. _Would Jim feign cowering? Would he lash out?_ Of course, Sherlock was already surprised by the speed of the decision, and the fact that it didn’t seem to bother him…

“Neither of us sees any point in wasting time, and I’m in a more thankful mood when my ass doesn’t hurt.” Jim spoke in a clipped business like tone. “So?”

“I expected you to hesitate over the decision at least,” Sherlock admitted, since he wasn’t getting any of the response he expected.

“As if I hadn’t expected sex to be part of this?”

“True.” Sherlock shrugged and took Jim to the chair near the fireplace and locked his ankle chain to the floor. “Do you want your hands free for this?”

“YOU probably do; I can work either way.”

Sherlock grinned, “So? Let me see what you can do without them.”

Jim snorted, but a faint smirk was creeping around the edges of his expression. “You want a fair test? Either unlock my hands and tell me not to use them, or put them behind my back.”

Sherlock tilted his head and considered. Normally, anyone he played with would be punished for trying to take control, but… from Jim he liked it a bit–he had decided he didn’t want him broken completely after all–and if he used his hands after being told not to it was an excuse to punish him… Sherlock unlocked Jim’s hands. “Don’t use them, then.”

Sherlock watched with some amazement as Jim slid gracefully to his knees. _Practiced, easy, no hesitation at all_. Jim expertly undid Sherlock’s belt with his teeth and mouth, and then undid the button on his trousers with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock almost held his breath. Jim had stated preferences to be dominant, even to use a knife, but he was performing like the best trained submissives in the club…

…

Jim hadn’t been able to get out of the restraints. The locks might be able to be gotten undone with a bit of work–they seemed to be an unusual brand of combination lock–or they could be cut, but the metal collar and cuffs themselves would need a rather specialized hex key. If Sherlock was less physically capable, or less cautious, it wouldn’t be an issue, but as it was the odds that he could get out of the restraints, overpower him, AND get past the electronic security he seemed to have on all the doors was minimal.

 _Ran in the family_ , Jim supposed, _although the Iceman had had guards and staff. I’m going to have to ride this out. At least he kept to his word on the three hours._

When Sherlock reminded him of the original statement–his three hours could be used to ask for comfort, or food, for instance–he had to bite back the curses. _Damn it, I should have realized, and of course he wants me to have to ask–beg, most likely: he’s reinforcing my position as property, prisoner, and submissive…_

He had stated I had limited ability to express my interests, so that’s likely to be a long range plan: reinforce rewards for submission…

A dilemma? Two bad choices then or two choices with negative…

Sherlock said, “You can start this session by being fucked–which will hurt, of course, but I assure you that you will orgasm–or you can–”

Jim was already spinning ahead: be fucked, with his ass and thighs still sore, but orgasm–reinforcing the pain and reward just like Sherlock had when he jerked him off during the first session. _That would just keep linking orgasm with pain… or… submission and degradation._

_Except… Sherlock doesn’t seem to know much about submission…_

“Oral sex. Predictable, and that’s my choice.”

_Damn, I didn’t let him finish before I chose–will he punish me or… no? Really? I guess he likes a bit of sass–maybe more than he realized… hmmm… Let’s see how well he copes with topping from the bottom. He probably hasn’t dealt with anyone who wasn’t just arguing and balking… He did say he would just stop it, so that’s what he expects…_

Jim smirked and gave Sherlock an opening: keep his hands free and surely I’ll mess up, giving him a perfect opportunity to punish me, right?

_Got you…_

Jim hadn’t had to play the submissive in a long time, but given that he actually had some attraction to that big beautiful brain–and the body wasn’t bad, even if not his usual tastes… Jim slid to his knees and kept his hands down. The belt was easy… He remembered practicing with his tongue on buttons…. Got it…

And oh the look of awe and lust on Sherlock’s face was priceless… It took everything Jim had not to laugh out loud–any of those idiots in that club could have owned this man if they bothered… Jim idly wondered how easy it would be to seduce Mycroft based on this, given how easily he fell for a…

Jim dragged his mind back to task and pulled down Sherlock’s zipper with his teeth, then carefully nudged the trousers down–they slid off Sherlock’s slim hips with ease. Keeping his hands on his thighs, Jim ran his tongue across Sherlock’s waistband and carefully gripped the elastic with his teeth and started slowly tugging his pants down. Sherlock’s cock sprang free almost instantly, making it even easier to ease the pants further down.

 _Nice…_ Jim had expected the length, given Sherlock’s build, but he was a bit thicker than expected–still not so much as to make this difficult.

He started flicking his tongue over Sherlock’s cock head as he slowly worked his pants down, freeing him completely from any fabric.

Sherlock lasted longer than Jim expected before grabbing him by the hair and pulling him in with a growled “Get to work.”

 _You poor, repressed, unsuspecting baby…_ Jim thought happily as he did, indeed, get to work. Jim might have learned the skills under situations of desperation, but he was never one to forgo a useful tool just because he didn’t like its origin. Sherlock had obviously been suffering under substandard blow jobs. Jim relaxed his throat and swallowed around him and was rewarded with a baritone growl suspiciously like a purr.

…

Sherlock forced himself to relax his hands. _GOD, he’d never had a blowjob like this! Where the hell had Jim learned…Why hadn’t Mycroft…_ Sherlock’s brain started stuttering and skipping tracks. Jim finished him off and licked him clean without moving his hands once.

“I am keeping you,” Sherlock said as he stared down into Jim’s satisfied smirk.

“You have what’s left of the week, Sherl, and then I walk away.” Jim stretched his neck in that oddly serpentine manner he had and smiled up at him, “Unless of course you can convince me to stick around…”

Sherlock started running calculations as his mind went into overdrive. _Jim clearly didn’t mind a bit of pain, but anything too extreme was… not going to convince him to stay. A combination, though…_

“You make a convincing argument,” Sherlock admitted slowly.

“I always do, but I’ll grant you you’ve been surprising.”

“I’m still a sadist, Jim,” Sherlock said carefully. Jim was a peer, someone he could actually relate to, but Sherlock knew this would never work if Jim couldn’t deal with his interests.

“So? I can take anything you can dish out, honey, but… if you want to get the benefits I can offer, I better have some fun.” Jim grinned wickedly, “And you REALLY might enjoy being on the other end if it’s me…”

“…I’ll consider it… but… I have…” Sherlock shook his head to clear it and thought about his plans. If Jim wasn’t able to enjoy this, then nothing long term would work. “You chose this option–” Sherlock began to say.

“And aren’t you glad?”

Sherlock smirked, “Alright, yes. Still, I had plans.”

“By all means. Can I move my hands yet?” Jim laughed up at him, “And you really should let me use them sometime…”

Sherlock just smiled and refastened the cuffs behind his back before unclipping him from the floor. “No, not today…”

Sherlock led him around to an empty area of the playroom and was pleased when Jim murmured, “Suspension points”.

“Yes. You did say you didn’t mind a certain amount of restraint and sensory work… and I did tell you I like restraint…”

“Blood, too, from what I recall.” Jim didn’t look alarmed, which Sherlock took as a promising sign.

“Yes.”

“Just remember that genital piercing needs discussion…” Jim commented idly, but Sherlock noticed that his eyes were a bit darker than the light warranted, and his breathing was just a bit deeper and faster…

 _If I can have him enjoy this as much as I do…_ Sherlock worked quickly, blindfolding Jim and starting the basic harness in rope. Jim remained calm, cooperative, and relaxed, even when Sherlock undid his cuffs to secure his arms properly in the rope harness.

…

Jim had to admit to curiosity: he’d liked the sensation of restraint and sensory limitation before as long as he had touch to ground him–what would it be like with Sherlock? Jim had never liked being hurt, really. _Oh, a few love bites and, well, rough play… that was good… Alright that was very good… but pain per se was just... painful._

_And boring._

_At least Sherlock wasn’t boring._

Sherlock unlocked Jim’s cuffs and began to tie his arms into the rope harness he was building. _Less than 10% likelihood of making it through the door if I bolt: cooperate._ Jim started relaxing and flexing muscles and running through encryption methods in his head.

Sherlock did seem fairly practiced at the rope binding. Jim had admired the art of it, but never learned it himself–handcuffs being far more practical, and he had people for anything else–but Sherlock had apparently spent a lot of time on it.

“Surprisingly comfortable, Sherl: you may be better than the person I let live last time…”

“I thought you were going to gut me like a fish?” Sherlock’s voice was amused.

“Might still,” Jim allowed. “You wiped out a lot of your credit with me.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, with a hint of a laugh. Jim hadn’t really thought about how expressive Sherlock’s voice was before: he was usually watching his face. Blindfolds were rather interesting after all.

“You’re about to move… Just lie back into the ropes–you won’t fall.” Sherlock said and pushed him gently on the shoulder.

Jim let himself fall backwards and found his feet lifting off the floor… He forced himself to stay relaxed and found himself suspended in the ropes… He might have been inches off the floor, or feet…

“Now, that’s interesting…” Jim kept his voice calm as he lost contact with everything but the ropes. “But I did say–”

“I’m right here.” Sherlock’s hand stroked down Jim’s side. “I do need to go get a few things. I will be stepping away for a moment.”

“Bad idea,” Jim said sharply, “and past my limits.”

“It’s just for a moment,” Sherlock said… and Jim was alone.

“Of course, why would you keep your word?” Jim snarled at himself, fool that he was for actually TRUSTING anyone.

A hand patted at him. “It’s just for a minute.”

“So? I set very few limits, Holmes.”

There was silence for a long while, but the hand stayed on his leg.

The hand trailed up his body to his neck and was joined by the other hand… motion and tugging and then the blindfold loosened.

“I’m pulling the blindfold, keep your eyes closed for a moment.” Light stabbed through his closed eyelids and Jim remembered the random lights of Mycroft’s holding cells.

…

Sherlock was just going to step away to the cabinet–why keep sharps at hand when he was re-doing Jim’s restraints–when Jim snapped that it was past his limits.

_His voice is showing stress?_

Sherlock found himself giving in to the urge to reassure: not one he usually felt at all, really; it was odd. He started away and…

“Of course, why would you keep your word?” Jim snarled.

Sherlock’s immediate response was to snap back at him, but he forced himself to take a gentler tack: if Jim was trying to provoke him he simply wouldn’t allow himself to be provoked. He patted Jim gently, “It’s just for a minute.”

“So? I set very few limits, Holmes.”

Sherlock stopped with his hand on Jim’s leg. He wasn’t going past their agreement… was he? Sherlock ran back over the few limits Jim had set…

_Nothing to the face or hands; nothing that couldn’t be concealed; no permanent injury; discussion of… Don’t use sensory deprivation without grounding or contact… Locking me in the dark is a very bad idea._

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the blindfold.

He moved his hand carefully up Jim’s body to his head and carefully loosened the blindfold while keeping one hand on the back of Jim’s neck.

“I’m pulling the blindfold, keep your eyes closed for a moment.”

As Sherlock pulled the blindfold away Jim tensed suddenly and then went back to his apparently relaxed posture in the ropes.

“I’m holding my hand over your eyes, can you open them?” Sherlock asked, keeping one hand on his neck and his other shading Jim’s eyes from the lights.

Jim’s eyes were the blank, expressionless black that Sherlock remembered from… _the last time it was dark, and Jim was disoriented and tried to kill me._

“I have no intention of breaking my word, or our arrangement,” Sherlock said carefully. He hated admitting to errors or mistakes. “I suspect I didn’t understand your limits…”

Slowly expression crept back into Jim’s face.

“I told you: locking me in the dark without contact is a lethal mistake.” Jim’s voice was very light, casual, almost relaxed… but Sherlock’s ear picked up a background tension that made an almost subliminal growl.

“I… failed to understand exactly what you meant. I… need to walk over to the other side of the room and back. I have NO intention of violating the few rules you set, Jim…” Sherlock sighed, “I want to hurt you, and I will, but… I find you too interesting to break our agreement.”

Jim looked at him suspiciously. “Push those boundaries again, Sherlock, and you find out exactly how unpleasant my contingencies can be.”

“Are you going to argue about knife play?” Sherlock wondered if Jim would use this as leverage to add to his limits.

Jim laughed, “A little blood never bothered me, Sherly. I made MY agreements clear in the first place. Keep to my limits and otherwise?” Jim shrugged in the ropes. “If I don’t like it, it’s my own fault for agreeing to it.” He raised an eyebrow. “But you’re the one that needs to convince me to change the end game, Sherlock: clock’s still ticking.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile in response. “You… are a very unpredictable man. Will you be alright without the blindfold?”

Jim snorted, “Bring me a cocktail while you’re gone: the hammock’s nice, but we’re too far from the beach or the bar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this was consensual non consent, there ARE no safe words here, but Jim did list his limits, and Sherlock (because he wasn't paying enough attention) was heading past one. luckily he corrected quickly...
> 
> from the author: i have been dealing both with the chronic issues of depression and etc, and the problem of hubby needing more care and then both of us getting very sick. i hope to be back to posting regularly soon.


	8. intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile friends and loved ones worry, and lose sleep...  
> John Watson, meet Sebastian Moran...

John had tried to go to work but, after one shift, he had to admit that it wasn’t going to be possible. He was far too worried about Sherlock, far too confused…

So he was at the flat, cleaning things up and organizing the cupboards and trying to do something useful.

He’d been in touch with Mycroft, but all he got was that they were still looking: _Sherlock was damnably good at vanishing when he wanted to._

So when the doorbell rang, he ignored it in favor of rearranging the tea again.

After a while, Mrs. Hudson came in. “Dear? There’s a gentleman here to see you?”

“Me?”

“Yes…”

“Oh, uh… Send him in?”

The man that came in was obviously and evidently military, but John didn’t know him.

“Sorry, most people are looking for Sherlock.” John forced a polite smile. “How can I help you?”

“And he’s missing,” the man said tiredly. John noted circles under his eyes and a telltale set to his mouth that indicated worry and a lack of sleep.

“Are… no, you aren’t one of his brother’s men.” John knew it–he wasn’t sure how, but he knew it… _and something about the man seemed so very familiar…_ “Would you like some tea?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

John set up tea and came back to find the man sitting in the visitor’s chair, looking thoughtfully at the skull on the mantle.

“Sherlock talks to it,” John said by way of explanation; he didn’t know why he bothered, but it seemed reasonable.

“Figures.” The man sighed, “Mine talks to things, too.”

“Yours?”

“I’m… Moriarty’s live-in one,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Sebastian.”

John somehow felt like he should be shocked, but it just seemed… appropriate. “Cream?” he asked while he tried to work up panic, or anger, or anything other than a sort of sense of curiosity.

“Please.” He looked over at him with those tired eyes. “Do I look as wiped out as you do?”

“I hope I don’t look that bad,” John murmured.

“Ah.”

They sat quietly with tea for a while. “I assume you have no idea where they went?” John asked finally.

“No. I was hoping you did, until I saw you.”

“Mycroft thinks… for some reason he thinks Sherlock is a sadist? And that they have some sort of deal…”

“Jim left instructions that if he didn’t report back at a specific time, alive and well enough to countermand the fail-safe, then people start dying.” He said idly, “I always wondered if your landlady’s biscuits were as good as they looked.”

“Looked?”

“Sniper… Sherlock doesn’t close the drapes that often.”

John glanced at the drapes: they were closed because he had closed them. “May I ask?” John waited until he got a nod from the man. “You… are worried? I mean, about Moriarty? He… uh…”

“You worry about yours?”

“When I’m not thinking about murdering him, or at least punching his face in? Yeah.”

Sebastian smiled faintly. “I worry about mine, and am occasionally tempted to restrain him to the bed for safety, except that I know he’d get loose and then he’d kill me–who’d look after him then?”

“If…” John paused. “Truce?”

Sebastian nodded slowly, “Truce… at least until we get our lunatics back.”

John scribbled his phone number down. “Here–you might get news first, and I am a doctor.”

Sebastian blinked a few times and perked up slightly. “Damn… right, you are.” He looked speculatively at him, “I’ll make you a bargain, doc… we find them… I’ll call you no matter what, but you agree to treat BOTH of them, and keep my loon out of big brother’s clutches.”

John considered. “Agreed, if you agree to help me and Sherlock walk away–I don’t want to treat the man just to end up as a hostage.”

Sebastian solemnly stuck out a hand and they shook on it. Sebastian gave him his number.

John looked at the weather: it had been pouring rain when Sebastian arrived; it was sunny now, judging from the light through the drapes. “I take it you arrived when you did to foil the cameras?”

“Yeah–be a bit tougher right now.”

“You can kip on the sofa if you like. I guess the bugs in the flat are actually gone or Mycroft would have shown up ages ago. You can leave after dark.”

“Thanks…”

They eventually started swapping military stories, and sometime after supper John found himself laughing over a story of Jim Moriarty having somehow–Sebastian never found out how–ended up naked in a warehouse full of dead men, absolutely FURIOUS that he’d misplaced his tie pin: not whatever ended up with him there, not the lack of clothes, not the dead people that Sebastian suspected of trying to kidnap him–the fact that his TIE PIN was missing.

When John recovered, he told him the story of how Sherlock had asked John to punch him in the face, and followed THAT up with the story of how Sherlock had solved a case too fast, and been disappointed in it, and ended up sulking for two days until coaxed out of his blanket fort by a promise of lemon squares.

Sebastian finally had to leave once it was well and truly dark.

“If you think it would pass under Mycroft’s radar… you can always just visit openly as an old army buddy.”

Sebastian smiled, “Might do that, doc. I suppose we have to stick together.”

“The MMLIOs?” John laughed. “The Mad Men’s Live-In Ones?”

“More like LSN–Lunatic Support Network.”

“We need unit patches.” John nodded.

“Oh, yeah…” Sebastian nodded. “I’ll try to get back before then, but… if nothing else, I’ll try to be in the neighborhood when the timer runs down.”

“It was good to meet you.”

“Good to finally meet you, too…”

Then he pulled on his jacket and walked quietly out of sight.


	9. Ropes and knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who knew Jim was a rope bunny?  
> Subspace, Knifeplay, and music

Jim was tense and angry enough that his nerves were a buzzing jangle demanding to kill something. Sherlock continually pushed the edges of the few boundaries he had established and… he couldn’t get out. He’d planned to ride it out– _hell, some of it had been fun_ –but if he couldn’t escape and he couldn’t trust Sherlock to keep his word, well…

_At least he’d left the blindfold off this time when he stepped away._

_He was taking a while…_ Jim slowly began to relax.

The rope suspension was fairly comfortable although… restrictive–he couldn’t move–but the pressure and weight was distributed extremely comfortably….

There was a low humming noise and he felt like he was drifting a bit…

~

Sherlock stepped away to get the sharps ready and give Jim a few moments to calm down. _I hadn’t meant to go past his limits._ Sherlock checked and double-checked his supplies: sterile sharps and medical response gear in place. He didn’t really know how to handle this–he wasn’t GOOD at boundaries, he knew that–but he… respected Jim, and he had intended to keep to their agreement. Sherlock found himself going into that odd meditative state he and his brother both got into, where organizing and cataloging things was so very calming and soothing–eventually he realized he had been humming and re-ordering his tools for a while… _but Jim hadn’t… said anything?_

He brought the tools he’d ordered over to the suspension area.

Jim was lying bonelessly in the ropes, eyes open, breathing evenly, not really… looking… at… _He was in subspace?_ Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully, peering intently at the man snared in the ropes. He took one of the sensory tools and gently rolled the spiky surface over Jim’s leg; Jim sighed slightly and relaxed further into the ropes.

Sherlock warmed his hands and put a bit of the cleansing lotion on them, and began stroking Jim’s legs firmly, kneading the muscles and occasionally flexing his fingers into the more sensitive places.

Jim slowly closed his eyes and began breathing a bit more deeply, a bit more rapidly. His flaccid penis began to show signs of blood flow.

Sherlock experimentally dragged the handle of a scalpel across his chest while moving his other hand to cup around Jim’s balls and gently squeeze; Jim moaned and tried to flex in the ropes. Sherlock chuckled and began to work in earnest: teasing, working him up, dragging the handle over the bottom of his feet, and then, when Jim was arching backward, moaning deeply in his throat, Sherlock drew the blade lightly across his ribs.

Jim made an incoherent noise and tried again, fruitlessly, to thrust up against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock drew a fingernail gently across the penile frenulum, while watching the blood well up on Jim’s ribs in a neat line and begin the process of dripping slowly across the skin…

~

Jim felt really strange, like he was floating but vibrating at the same time. He felt Sherlock touch him, saw him poised over him like a curious raven, head cocked… He felt as though at any moment Sherlock would lower his head and come back up with some vital organ in his beak…

Jim tried to giggle but it came out as a moan.

Sherlock was rubbing and teasing him and he was being held everywhere and squeezed and he felt so ungrounded and the only thing that mattered was trying to focus on the hands that were so wonderful and hurt just a bit and cold, hard lines being drawn across him and then warm hands toying and tugging and he felt like he would scream if he didn’t come soon… and then a sensation like the sound of a violin note being held ran across his ribs and he arched up into Sherlock’s hand…

~

Sherlock drew another line with the blade and Jim rolled his head to the side and murmured something that sounded like “Détaché”.

Sherlock didn’t want to bring him out of it so he kept his voice low and soft. “What’s ‘détaché’?”

Jim’s hand fluttered and his fingers moved as if he was conducting… _as if he was…_ Sherlock looked back at the two cuts–one long, one short–and smiled. “Would you prefer something more… melodic?”

“Mmmm…” Jim focused, just a little. “Either staccato or glissando, but… not in-between?”

Sherlock tilted his head again and Jim began to giggle. “You look like a raven… Will you pluck out my eyes, I wonder?”

“That would violate our agreement…”

“I don’t think you care…”

Sherlock winced, “I think I do…” He picked up a new blade and began to trace curves and curls across one of Jim’s thighs.

Jim made a sound that was probably a groan, but was beautifully musical… Sherlock began humming along to Tchaikovsky in his head as the blade made traceries of blood over Jim’s leg and up his ribs…

~

Jim had understood it was a knife–he’d been expecting it, after all–but it didn’t… it didn’t feel like when he’d been cut before… it was… it was pain, just a bit, but then the touch of Sherlock’s fingers seemed more intense, and his humming… _God I love that voice; I want to hear him moaning–I want him in chains_ … and thinking of that, and feeling so untethered, he came…

Sherlock wiped him clean with something then ran his hands back over him, tracing next to what must be cuts… swirls and loops and dancing fingers like a violin…

“I want to make you come apart…” Jim sighed.

“You’re doing a good job of it already,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re perfect…”

Jim forced his eyes to open and focus on Sherlock: he was biting his lip and looking avidly down, and while one hand was dancing across Jim’s ribs, the other hand… Jim smiled, “Wouldn’t you rather let me do that?”

“I would love to, but I’m not suicidal.” Sherlock smiled faintly.

Jim tested the ropes and considered. “I can move my hands, just not my arms, so much…”

“I’ll have to tie you differently next time; now hush and let me watch you bleed in peace.”

Jim lay back and watched him… his fingers became more erratic… and he finally drew his hand back, red staining the fingertips, and touched it to his lips… and Jim watched his expression twist into that pained look that he’d always wanted to see…

~

Sherlock shuddered and gasped, Jim’s blood just staining his lips. When his eyes cleared he saw Jim looking up at him possessively.

Sherlock looked away quickly. He got the supplies and began cleaning and bandaging him, cleaning himself up in the meantime. _This would be so much easier with staff, really: someone to come in and clean up so I didn’t have to concern myself with mundane trifles._

“What are you thinking about?”

“How nice maid service would be?” Sherlock answered.

Jim started to giggle again, “You could call Molly, I suppose.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “She’d be too busy begging me to play with her.”

“Poor Sherly…” Jim laughed. “If she’s that much of a sub, put her in chains and a collar and tell her that IF she does a good enough job you MIGHT play with her…”

“I don’t want her that addicted: she’s hard enough to deal with now.” He looked at him thoughtfully. “You seem in a better mood.”

“It was enjoyable… once you played by the rules.”

“I want to do the piercings, but… I think I’ve pushed your limits enough for now… and you need to eat.”

“Do I?” Jim looked vaguely unhappy. “I like the ropes, and you never got me my cocktail.”

“Yes, you do–spending too much time in suspension is bad for you–and I’ll try to put mixed drinks in next time.”

“You assume there will be one.”

“Do I still need to convince you? You enjoyed it…”

“I still want to see you on the other end of a chain, darling…”

Sherlock considered: _If he could keep Jim, if Jim would let him… it wouldn’t be too horrible to let him have a turn._ “I’ll consider it–I said I would consider turnabout after… but… not with threats hanging over me.”

“Then you have more convincing to do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while you may feel free to add in any music in your head, i think this is what Sherlock was humming:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTE08SS8fNk  
> still... your choice of music.


	10. too much and truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays with ropes, Jim gets a bit over excited-or something- and Sherlock starts asking a few things...

Sherlock carefully let Jim down from the ropes.  Jim collapsed like a marionette with his strings cut.

“wha..?” Jim shook his head. “You… didn’t cut that deep…” his words slurred faintly.

“Blood flow issues combined with subspace…” Sherlock said carefully guiding him up to a kneeling position on the matt. “And adrenaline and endorphins.”

Jim giggled, “I feel drunk!  I want to stab someone happily…”

“…you what?”

“I feel all stabbity but  happy at the same time–s weird.”

Sherlock held a drink to his lips and helped him get it down.  Jim kept collapsing forward from his kneeling position giggling under his breath.

“Are you sure that’s not enough convincing?” Sherlock managed to keep his voice level–he was never letting him go, ever, not ever… he was perfect.

“Get your damn pants off.” Jim said with a bit of his usual voice, “you wanted me bleeding, and you liked the blow job…”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and felt his interest return. “You… probably should rest… and eat something.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear…” Jim suddenly growled and his voice dropped to a lower pitch. “You want it, I want it… why stop?”

Sherlock slowly pulled his trousers down and off and then his pants, and returned to the matt… “I’m not undoing your hands…”

Jim looked up at him with a flash of wickedness that made Sherlock’s heart almost stop, “As you might remember, Sherlock… I don’t need them–not for this.”

Jim took him into his mouth and giggled again. He started a long slow swallowing motion, combined with rocking back and pulling away.  The cuts stung as he flexed and moved. He thought about biting down… _I’d starve? No… no I’d eat him, eat him all up…_

Sherlock was watching the blood start dripping again–he’d have to bandage that better–and the sensation was wonderful… but Jim’s muscles were twitching oddly and he was moving deliberately to open the wounds?  He pulled on Jim’s hair and made him look up around a mouthful of him…saw something dangerously unbalanced in Jim’s eyes and pulled away…

Jim crooned in a sing song fashion and… it raised the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He put two fingers under Jim’s chin and lifted his head… Jim was smiling like a shark and his eyes… they flickered and darted but they were never focusing.

“Jim?”

Jim made a growling noise deep in his throat and started singing, “I could just eat you all up.”

 _Psychotic break? Stress?  No… dissociative episode?_   Sherlock shook his head, whatever it was Jim was most definitely not HERE right now…

“Jim…I’m moving you.”

He pulled Jim to his feet and Jim swayed… worse than he’d swayed on his knees… _DAMN fool_ , Sherlock swore to himself, _he hadn’t eaten and the adrenaline was coming off and he’s just been in subspace, and he was crashing and I shouldn’t have let him..._

Sherlock dragged Jim to a surface intended for more… active… things, but it was nearby and he could be secured upright enough to eat.

“Come back… let me eat you ALLL up!” Jim giggled.

Sherlock came back with a blanket and a nutritional shake.   He very carefully wrapped Jim up, and then re-secured him with the straps pulled tight across the wrappings.

“What?”

“Pressure… now drink this.” Sherlock petted him firmly, he’d never had the inclination for after care with any of the others—done it from necessity at best, but… this was different.

Slowly… very slowly… Jim came back up–or down depending on your point of view.  The manic and not all here look faded and he slowly blinked at Sherlock.

“That would have been interesting…” Jim said slowly, as though he was drunk or more likely as though he was sedated.

“What would have been?”

“Eating you… it wouldn’t exactly have been alive, you know… I would have waited until you bled out…”

Sherlock’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “You would have died here.”

“So?”

“That… would be a very bad way to die…”

Jim blinked a few more times, “not what I would have chosen, no.”

“Then why would you do it?”

With an amused drawl that was clearly Jim Moriarty back among the coherent, he answered, “Sherly, if you think I’m exactly SANE… then why did you expect me to take you up on this?”

“…some people enjoy it. Others would do it from pride: they think they can hold out when they can’t–you held out against Mycroft–”

“Sherlock, sweetheart, my innocent little lamb…” Jim chuckled, “I’ve been through worse than Mycroft’s boys put me through before I was fourteen.” He considered, “Some of it was novel, certainly, but not worse.”

“..Novel…” Sherlock blinked a lot.

“I’ll do anything to avoid being bored, darling.  Novel is good.”  Jim seemed like he was still a bit drunk on the endorphins, so Sherlock asked, “Did you enjoy that?”

“Oh yes…” he sighed, “You got me high but you didn’t damage me…”

Sherlock stared as the last piece fell into place, “You actually do enjoy this… this isn’t faked, but its not new…”

“new?  Oh hardly new.” He laughed, “You didn’t ask me if I was a masochist–for the record the answer is yes, but only sometimes and only if I’m in the right head space–”

Sherlock interrupted, “you are? You never… you said you prefer sadism?”

“I prefer to dish it out, certainly…That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.  I usually only draw on my masochistic tendencies to survive… oh… people like your brother– it surely does help when my aide has to stitch me up…” Jim tilted his head, “more to drink?”

Sherlock got him some broth. “That… wasn’t masochism on display just then.”

“Yes, well… I do get a bit…unruly.” he shrugged as best as he could in the restraints, “First with you pushing my limits, and then with… I’ve never floated like that for so little damage,” he smiled amusedly up at Sherlock, “Last time I was that high… your brother’s boys had just finished doing something insanely painful with pins and electricity… and I think they’d broken a bone by that point. I was flying…” he continued on dreamily, “I asked them to choke me a little, I just needed a push, almost there… but they wouldn’t–they put me back in my cell and called Mycroft.” He shrugged, “by that point I’d crashed.”

Sherlock stared at him…

“what?”

Sherlock very slowly undid the straps and helped him down onto a matt on the floor, making certain his hands and legs were still securely restrained. “I’m going to feed you some, and then… we’re going to  try something.”

Jim just looked amused and perplexed, but Sherlock left him on the matt with a blanket and went to get food.

...

He came back and hand fed him, slowly.  Jim occasionally made snapping gestures at Sherlock’s fingers but he seemed in a good mood and he missed, so Sherlock ignored it as a sort of flirting.

“Do you like electricity?” Sherlock asked a bit dubiously.

“no, not really… it… tends to keep you grounded in your body a bit too much. Why?” Jim answered calmly.

“I’m not overly fond of it myself.” Sherlock admitted, “but if you liked it I would add it in.”

Jim shook his head, “You are a very strange sadist, Sherlock–ever considered making a living at it?”

Sherlock snorted, “No, did you ever consider making a living as a masochist?”

Jim hesitated slightly and that was all it took as Sherlock’s eyes scanned over him, “you did?  You didn’t just consider it…”

“People pay a lot of money to hurt little boys.” Jim shrugged. “Better that I got something for it, don’t you think?  But no one’s been able to do that to me in a long time…” he laughed, “and your brother never followed up, as I said, for all his evident interest–and it wasn’t all that profitable.”

"Are you up to a bit more?"

"You're asking me?" Jim snorted at him.

"yes."

"Then i'm up for a bit more."

“I’m going to do that again, but a bit differently… and then I want to put you down to rest… and since I did say that was your room…you have a choice, I can rest in your room with you, or you can rest here.”

“… my room.”

Sherlock carefully pulled him back to the suspension area, and got out fresh ropes, but he also got out something like bandages.  He wrapped the cut areas more carefully, to avoid problems form the ropes, and he started tying a dense diamond pattern around Jim, keeping his legs separate.

As the ropes formed and pulled and tightened Jim found himself fighting the urge to sink into it–curiosity warring with a desire for comfort.

Eventually he was lifted carefully, wide open, supported more in slings than by the ropes and Sherlock started tugging…

Pressure, release, pressure release, pressure going from one part of his body to another in waves.  Jim started drifting.

Sherlock watched the pressure hit him like a drug and smiled, he tugged and tightened and  moved the pressure around Jim’s body until he was well and truly under… and then he got out the knives again... and the needles.

Jim’s only response to the needle sliding through his upper arm was to moan and arch… which tightened the ropes just a hair.  Sherlock continued, creating patterns of needles and ropes on his skin…He started stroking Jim gently, and Jim whimpered and started to make noises that could have been begging.

Sherlock looked at the ropes and the decorative needle work–limited, since he’d used this rope pattern– and made a small careful cut, just enough to bleed…

“Which way do you want it, Jim? Penetration? Oral? Just my hand?  You said you needed a little push…”

Jim’s eyes blinked at him, but they were softer and less focused… “Whatever you want, pretty thing…”

Sherlock considered and got out one of the smaller plugs–but one that should accomplish what he needed.  He carefully worked Jim open enough and slid the well lubed plug into place.  Jim made a noise suspiciously like a purr.

Sherlock made another cut, this one over Jim’s pubic bone–close enough to see it, and smell it, and probably taste it– and then he lowered his head and took Jim in his mouth while he stroked himself.  Jim arched his head backward  and tried to thrust up into him–all it did was tighten the ropes and make him swing a bit.

Sherlock was looking up  a body in ropes, bleeding with his handiwork…and it was Jim… he finished himself off very quickly.  Jim was panting and growling in the ropes… and Sherlock started playing with the plug and teasing with his tongue… and then pulled on the rope he’d left accessible and the ropes around Jim’s throat tightened just a bit…

The groan as he came could have been pain, could have been pleasure, could have been both… and he slipped into a pleasant doze with his eyes closed and his muscles lax.

Sherlock smiled and cleaned him up, removing the needles and making certain everything was good… he let Jim down into a wheelchair –Jim started to struggle awake–Sherlock pulled the ropes to snug against him– Jim settled again.

Sherlock wheeled him into his own room, and put him into bed.  He carefully removed most of the ropes–Jim made unhappy noises– and then re attached his collar to the line, and re secured his wrists and ankles.  Then Sherlock shed what was left of his own clothes and slid into bed with him.

Jim was muscled, but much smaller, and Sherlock wrapped himself around the man tightly and felt him settle. Sherlock put his head down toward Jim’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of blood and anti-septic, and went to sleep.

 


	11. discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominance, Submission, Sadism and Masochism...  
> and a serious discussion
> 
> (Note: Hubby is still quite ill, so this is not Beta'd)

Jim drifted down to sleep with the warning bells going off in his mind, but he didn’t care.  _Sure he’d talked too much, but it felt so GOOD… everything was wonderful, it was all wonderful_ , and this time he wasn’t crashing and he was warm and he was wrapped up snug and then it was soft and…

He woke up in a comfortable bed with arms wrapped around him.

_Wait… what?_

He pulled his memories up… _fuck fuck shit damn… holy HELL he’d gotten that much out of me?_

“I can tell you’re awake, you know.” Sherlock’s voice in his ear, followed by teeth.

“It’s a real pity that I’m going to have to kill you, you know.”

Sherlock laughed and mimicked Jim’s pool line back at him, “No you won’t!”

“No one gets to me, Sherlock, not you, and not your brother–”

“What makes you think my brother has anything to do with this?” Sherlock growled. “He would love nothing more than to back me into a corner and make me take on agent duty… I’m sure he has it all set up for me to work for him in exchange for helping to save me from you… I don’t need saving.”

Jim frowned, “…I’m no one’s pet and I’m no one’s prisoner.”

“No… you aren’t… not after this week, anyway, and there’s not much left of it.” Sherlock untangled himself from around Jim. “We need to talk, but there are certain personal matters first.”

Sherlock unlocked his hands and feet and let him head into the bathroom.  After Jim used the toilet he gave himself the once over in the mirror. There were marks here and there from the ropes, and little dots of blood and scabs, and bandaged cuts… and he was puffy.  Jim frowned at his reflection, “I look like shit.”

“Not really.” Sherlock’s voice from the main room, “You are as bit dehydrated as far as I can tell, and you need a shower.”

“So do I get one?”

“Yes, but breakfast first.”

Jim came back out to find Sherlock had set up a toaster of all things.

“You know I could kill you with that thing?”

“Probably.” Sherlock shrugged, “But I thought you might like your toast warm.”

They sat down to what was objectively a civilized breakfast–with Sherlock in nothing but a bathrobe and Jim in nothing but restraints.  About half way through breakfast he started giggling and couldn’t stop.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and looked disapproving and it looked SO much like Mycroft that Jim stopped and stared at him. “Are you imitating your brother deliberately?”

Sherlock smirked, “you stopped didn’t you?” he waved at the plate, “finish your food and NO I’m not letting you hide any utensils, so don’t bother.”

Jim pouted at him.

After breakfast Sherlock re-secured him to a walking chain and cuffed his hands, and took him around and through to a larger and more luxurious shower–one with restraint points.  Jim had momentary flashbacks to waterboarding… _that… was not fun._

“Problem?”

“For the record, waterboarding is not something fun under any circumstances.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”  Sherlock hooked his collar to the wall on a chain and took the key away and then he came back.

“What do you expect me to do with my hands behind my back, sherly?”

“I’m going to clean you up… and let’s see if we can’t make it enjoyable for both of us, hmm?”

Sherlock started with his scalp and rubbed his way down to Jim’s ass. He spent a good bit of time stroking Jim’s erection just enough to make it a tease and not enough to…

“For FUCK sake Sherlock!”

“If you want something, you could ask…” Sherlock laughed into his ear and slid his hand, too slowly.

“You can do a better job than that…” Jim growled.

“I can, yes.”

Jim took several deep breaths and tried to get his temper controlled. “Please?” he managed to get out through gritted teeth.

“Certainly…” Sherlock’s voice slid down into his deepest register and he started picking up the speed, and getting a lot rougher. “I don’t respond well to orders, Jim.  I won’t make you beg, but you have to ask.”  He was doing glorious things with that long fingered hand, and then his other hand started working on Jim’s nipples…

If Sherlock hadn’t held him up he would have collapsed.

While Jim was still relaxed and post orgasmic, Sherlock washed him thoroughly, making sure to be careful but clean the cuts–Jim got his first look at them.

“Huh…” he turned to see the cuts on his leg in the mirror. Sherlock just watched him.

“You need work on that…” Jim finally said after looking them over.

“I…what?”

“You need work on that.  Probably because you’ve been holding back so much, you don’t have a lot of practice… did you use needles?  I think I remember needles…”

“Yes.  Surface only, it shouldn’t cause any–”

“I wasn’t complaining, Shirly… I get that done at a club when I’m in the states.”

“… You…”  Sherlock pinched his nose, “Once again, we need to talk.”

Sherlock got him dried off –handed him a robe, much to Jim’s shock–and took him back to the playroom, but this time… he pulled an extra chair over to the mock fireplace and pointed at it. “Sit down, I’m cuffing you to the chair, and then I’m getting tea…”

~

Sherlock spent some time getting the tea and collecting his thoughts.  He came back with it and Jim laughed, “More of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits?”

Sherlock smiled faintly, “I like them.  They aren’t drugged this time.”

“All right, so what do we have to talk about?”

“You… me… I have the impression you didn’t mean for me to find out some things.”

Jim winced slightly, “well, no… when people find out you can enjoy certain things they… well it’s not safe.”  He gave Sherlock an extremely measuring look, “you… you’re good, but…”

“But as you said, my practice has been limited.” Sherlock nodded, “Either the paid submissives–who report on me– individuals I do not dare actually practice on, like Molly, and… well, occasional suspects, but that’s rarely mixed with pleasure.”

Jim smirked, “I’m highly suspicious, ask anyone.”

Sherlock sat back, “An important question, Jim: why didn’t you tell me you LIKED knifeplay?”

“I didn’t know… I could never afford to play on this end, darling… I knew I liked needle play, but my ability to explore that is limited.  That said? I’ve been cut and hurt with edges… and… I was either able to ignore it or ride it out, but the crash sucks.”

“So you…”

“So as far as I knew I could… not enjoy, that’s the wrong word… not mind?  Yes. I could not mind cuts… and if I got enough injuries well… they vanished in the flying, you know?”

Jim looked amused at him, “you are very, very good… you just need a bit of work on your knife skills, but… I’m not complaining about that…”

“What happened to gutting me like a fish?” Sherlock smirked

“I don’t like losing.” Jim sighed, “and I really hate  being wrong about people…and I still need to kill you–nothing personal.”

“No you don’t.” Sherlock said idly and then considered, “You need better aftercare…”

“Probably? It’s not something I can usually…” he shrugged, “my ability to play with masochism is limited.   You may be being watched by Big Brother, but so am I, as well as a lot of my competition…”

“You are not submissive, though, not in the usual fashion…” Sherlock said steepling his hands and considering.  “You didn’t enjoy being put down, even if you enjoyed the rest. I never actually dealt with someone who was dominant who was also a masochist…”

“NOT that I have much ability to explore,” Jim sighed, “But sadism is expected–respected– in my circles.” Sherlock looked wistful and Jim continued, “Masochism? That attracts the wrong kind of attention.”

“I’m a sadist, and have a distinct taste, in all senses, for blood,” Sherlock nodded, “I tried to make that clear.  I tried with Irene but…”

“I think I know your problem Sherlock… and it’s because you haven’t been able to explore.  I suspect you may like submission to a peer,” Jim’s eyes glittered over his tea cup, “just not… masochism–or not much.”

Sherlock considered that carefully, “Until this, I don’t think I thought they were separable.”

“I switch, as I said I prefer the hilt end of the knife–although that is partly because of the risk of being caught– but… I’m not submissive.  I can play submissive to get what I want, but… honestly the submission part of all of this is driving me batty.” He looked wistful, “Even if the rest of it was nice.”

Sherlock sat quietly thinking while Jim sipped his tea and nibbled his biscuits.

~

Jim knew that if even half of this got back to the Iceman he’d be in for a world of hurt–and not the good kind.  He was going to have to kill Sherlock… and that hurt all by itself.  He’d… it was so hard to find anyone worth talking to, who wasn’t boring… and who didn’t… didn’t hate him.

_I knew I had it bad, I just didn’t know it was THIS bad._

“You have three days and a few hours left.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Kind of lost track,” Jim shrugged, “I figured you were tracking it.”

“My brother is still hunting for us, but it has slowed–honestly I think he’s given up, but he is a creature of habit.”

“I can’t let you–” Jim cut off as Sherlock walked over and took out an oddly shaped little bit of metal. “What’s that?”

Sherlock chuckled and pulled Jim’s hair to guide his head to the side, “a key, of sorts.”

There was a bit of work at his collar and then it was gone… it felt odd.  Sherlock did the same to his wrist cuffs, and then to his free ankle… and then to the ankle with the chain…Jim honestly didn’t know what to do.

“So…” Sherlock looked thoughtfully at him. “Are you staying?”


	12. negotiations and interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim begin to negotiate things... but are interrupted.

Jim startled and then dropped into analysis… “Why?”

“As I said, I wanted to break you, and then… I didn’t want you to break.  You’re far too interesting a person to destroy, but…” Sherlock smiled that unsettlingly and endearingly wicked smile, “I was going to win. Technically, I won already–I suspect I won that first time, when you screamed for me.”

Feeling considerably better now that he wasn’t trapped, Jim sat back. “Your brother had to break bones and half kill me to get me to scream.” He admitted.

Sherlock preened under the praise. “You were angry at me for breaking your composure… because I did.”

Jim forced himself to be calm, “so?”

“You’ve enjoyed every bit of this, even if you didn’t want to, haven’t you?”

Jim smirked, “well, not the calibration exercises.”

Sherlock granted him that. “But it’s the fact that you didn’t want to, and as you said… the submission… that upset you.”

“I despise losing, and… let’s just say submission has negative connotations–even more so than pain.”

“I want to keep you.”

“No one can keep me.”

“Even if you keep me too?”

Jim had to put his tea cup down, “WHAT did you say?”

“I’m a sadist–it’s part of me, it’s what I need, BUT,” he held up a finger, “I will not do this to anyone who doesn’t fit into one of two categories:  they truly and seriously deserve it, or they are voluntary.”

“…and?” Jim narrowed his eyes.

“You enjoy it. As you have said, this is a weakness you cannot allow to get out–which is why you threatened to kill me…”

“One of the reasons.” Jim sighed, “It’s still true.”

“The situation has changed, Jim… you CAN’T afford to ‘burn the heart out of me’, because I know too much–I could take you down with me.”

“Which is why I have to kill you, sadly.”

“No, it’s why you are going to change your plans entirely.  You can’t let anyone else know about this–can’t let anyone else do this for you or to you… That’s all true… what is also true is that I need the outlet–and I can’t afford to get caught either.”

“Big Brother doesn’t approve…” Jim turned the idea over slowly.

“However much he infuriates me, he IS my brother and… I care about him.  My family has had a number of members put away or lobotomized when they had tastes like mine that got out of hand–”

Lobotomized!” Jim stared in horror. He immediately began planning to exterminate the rest of the Holmes family.

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at him, “My brother has done most of what he has done to keep me alive and intact… I may despise the situation–and yes I enjoy watching him chase after phantom purchases– but I DO understand why he does it.”

“…so… you’ll come with me… but?” Jim turned the idea over in his mind… _it might work_ …

“You leave my people strictly alone–that includes my brother– and we sit down and work out how to keep your interests from bringing you into conflict with him again.” Sherlock looked at him levelly, “And it’s not that I would come with you, it’s that we would be mutually benefiting from our association.”

“Tempting…” Jim smirked, “alright, I’ll give you those three days to finish convincing me.” he made a show of licking his lips.

Sherlock couldn’t help watching those lips… “Do you actually like being on your knees?  Your talents are… intense.”

For answer Jim smiled a broad unsettling smile and walked over, sliding to his knees in front of Sherlock without breaking eye contact once. “Buckle up, Sherlock…”

And then there were fingers playing over him delicately, roughly, alternately soothing and hurting and digging into his hip and caressing his thighs and then Jim’s mouth was on him.

Sherlock actually stopped thinking for a moment and then he focused on laughing eyes full of challenge and smiled, “you did ask, I think…” and he dug his fingers into Jim’s hair and pulled Jim onto him until he choked.

The sensation of Jim’s throat working and spasming around him was glorious–Sherlock let him up to breathe, and Jim gasped for air and… went back to work.

Sherlock pulled him in until he was choking against him, until he could feel the body overrule the mind in a desperate bid for air… and let go.

The third time he did it Jim came without a hand on him… but he went back to work finishing Sherlock off as soon as he recovered.

“That…” Jim’s voice was rough, and distant, “was fantastic.”

“I’m inclined to agree…” Sherlock managed to answer, barely.

Jim suddenly uncoiled and stood up, pinning Sherlock in place by moving too close. “If we’re going to work this out, darling… I’m not submissive–really I’m not.”

Sherlock looked up at him, “But you love what I can do to you.”

“True… and I might let you live… but…” Jim’s eyes glittered dangerously, “As I said I like the hilt end of the knife as well.”

“Right now,” Sherlock said quietly, “You’re just trying to reestablish control after I put you down.”

“So?” and Jim crawled onto his lap and pulled his head back by those gorgeous long curls–hard.

Sherlock had known he liked his hair played with, but the only time anyone pulled like that had been a threat… _I’d always thought the rush was from the danger… oh…_

Jim held him painfully still, but Sherlock didn’t raise his hands, just waited to see what Jim would do…

Jim kissed him.  It was gloriously aggressive and Sherlock’s arms came up around him and Jim pulled even more on his hair to the point that he wanted him to stop… and Jim bit his lip.  There was an oh so faint taste of blood in his mouth and suddenly the pain… became a rush of heat… and Jim was slowly letting go of his hair….

When Sherlock came up for air, blinking dazedly at Jim, Jim smirked, “such a pity I didn’t meet you–or Mycroft I suspect– when I was working… I would have owned you.”

Before Sherlock could come up with a reply Jim smiled very sweetly, “so… would you care to let me show you a few tricks with a knife, darling? We can take turns…”

“I want you begging and calling my name while you bleed…” Sherlock whispered.

“What a coincidence, so do i–although the bleeding is optional.” Jim laughed, “Still since it turns you on…”

“I can’t let you…”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“I need your agreement to leave my friends alone, Jim… I don’t have enough to lose any.”

“Friends are over rated, Sherlock, but fine… I’ll leave your pet–”

It was at that moment that Sherlock’s phone started vibrating. Sherlock frowned and pulled it out of the pocket of his robe. “That was a priority…” he looked at Jim, “if I unlock this and find you have done anything–”

Jim snorted, “Has it been a week? No? Then nothing’s happened that I authorized.” He looked thoughtful, “in case you don’t recall: you have antagonized a lot of people, and your brother has enemies…”

Sherlock unlocked the phone and stared at the message, then he looked up slowly, “My brother… is apparently trying to take someone into custody from my flat… and John was injured.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you could go try to deal with it, I suppose… but I rather expect by the time you get there he’ll be gone… I could call someone…”

Sherlock shook his head and dialed–he put in on speaker.

He had dialed John’s number but Mycroft answered, “Sherlock? Ah, so one of your spies did have a means of contacting you.”

“What are you doing, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was very low and very dangerous. Jim suppressed a shiver and grinned.

“Arresting one of Moriarty’s people–unquestionably the man assigned to kill Doctor Watson, although he doesn’t appear to believe me.”

John’s voice, loud and angry, “We had an agreement you intolerable PRICK!  If he got contacted first he was going to call me, I AM a doctor, if you recall… now let me see how badly injured he is!”

A voice Sherlock didn’t know–pained and probably restrained and compressed judging from the breathing–“I’ve had worse.”

Jim had been cocking his head curiously and suspiciously, but suddenly his head came up and his eyes were blazing murder.  Sherlock looked at him and saw it suddenly–this was John… this was HIS john…

“Mycroft…” Sherlock said softly, “You have ten minutes to get any of your people that you don’t want to die away from my flat.  You will let John tend to whoever that is–”

“On the contrary, Sherlock: I’m taking him to be interrogated–”

Sherlock hung up.

“Before you say anything Jim… is he allergic to any drugs?”

“…no.” Jim was baring his teeth.

“Good.” Sherlock entered a rapid series of numbers into his phone.

“I’ll take every single injury out of his HIDE!” Jim was snarling through clenched teeth and pacing.

“Unless my brother managed to find and remove that without setting off an alert?” Sherlock looked up, “They’ll be out cold for at least an hour without the antidote.”

Jim stopped and looked at him. “Gas in the flat?”

“Yes–it’s related to the frosting.” Sherlock was continuing to tap rapidly at his phone.

“I can call people to pick them up.”

“No need, I have your clothing–we’ll just get dressed and go get them.” He put the phone away and got up, moving with speed.

Jim followed him to another set of rooms, ones he had never been in– It was obviously Sherlock’s bedroom here.  Sherlock opened a closet to reveal the clothing Jim had packed, as well as the suit he had been wearing at tea, neatly on hangers.

“Will we get there in time?” Jim was pulling on clothes with unusual carelessness. “If Sebie is bleeding…”

“They would have stopped any urgent bleeding so they could question him.” Sherlock was also dressing quickly. “And yes, we will be in time.”

“The outside guards will have called it in.”

“I used my last ditch tap into Mycroft’s computers–the cameras are looped and right now cell phone signal is blocked in the area. We should have only a few guards to deal with.” Sherlock continued muttering, “Damn you Mycroft.”

He glanced at Jim re-securing his weapons, and handed him a small spray canister. “Close range knock out–don’t kill unless you have to.”

Jim agreed, reluctantly–Sherlock didn’t have to unlock him after all, or give him back his weapons.

Sherlock undid electronic locks with speed and they headed downstairs– _down? Not up?  True the floor had seemed unlike the solid concrete–even with wood over it– you would expect in a basement._

Sherlock took them down what appeared to be a maintenance entrance and out into an alley, where a scruffy looking boy was waiting.

“Good job.” Sherlock nodded at him.

“The fellow they was after had been there before… all day… but your Doc was okay then so…”

“Quite right.” Sherlock handed him money, “I’ll give everyone a bonus when I finish dealing with this.”

Jim itched to find out what the boy knew, but Sherlock was already turning and moving out to the street…

Baker Street.

Across the street from Sherlock’s flat.

The building he had blown up…

“Oh you clever thing you…” Jim breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must nod politely to https://archiveofourown.org/works/582059 (by wordstrings) for the idea of which building i used.   
> (NOTE! that fic is VERY dark, and not at all a friendly sadism like this one)


	13. This is war...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flat on Baker Street is under attack... which is a terrible idea with two military men who are already stressed.  
> (Note: this is very jumpy and rapid because in all honesty thats how it appeared to the two men.)
> 
> My husband is still too ill to proof read for me, all errors are on me

Sebastian couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was being watched, so he did what Jim had always suggested and tried to bore them to death. He scrubbed his phone and double checked that everything was secure…and went about an ordinary boring day doing perfectly ordinary things.

 _Yeah, those cameras were aimed ever so slightly differently today_. _Mycroft? Probably._   He couldn’t possibly do any work for the boss with that level of observation… so what was a perfectly ordinary ex-soldier supposed to do with his day?

He went grocery shopping… _yeah those cameras were… and there were some people trying for a chance to intercept him?  Hmmm…_

Sebastian didn’t go home, he went to Baker Street.

“John?  Its Sebastian, can I come up?”

“Sure, did you…” John stopped at the finger held to Sebastian’s lips.

“Yeah, I got some groceries for you.” Sebastian continued as if nothing at all was unusual about this.

“… Thanks… did you remember the cream?” John touched his ear casually and looked at him.

“How could I forget cream,” Sebastian said indignantly and nodded.  He brushed his eyes and looked questioningly at John, “Are there still eyes about?”

“I thought I got rid of my flat mate’s experiments… but no guarantees.”

They started putting things away and setting up for tea, and over the running water Sebastian quietly said, “Been followed, but I don’t know by who.”

“Well, hang about for a bit.”

They were making sandwiches when there was a sound that sent both military men diving for cover; then the window broke and a grenade trailing smoke came bouncing in.

Both of them were up in a moment with guns in hand, choking and covering their faces with their shirts.

“Upstairs bedroom!” John pointed and turned to run, and then men were storming into the flat.  John was suddenly back in the war, and when he saw a man ready to fire on his fellow soldier he dropped him with one shot.  One of them returned fire but only grazed him before everyone was trying to stay to cover.

Sebastian took down two of them clean and fast, determined to make this costly–much to his surprise John took one down with a shot that would be the envy of any of Jim’s men. Then he was hit from behind with something that felt like a knife and… electricity jolted through him.  The gun fell from nerveless fingers even as he saw the floor rush up to meet him.

John saw his teammate fall and turned to see more men coming in–he shot more of them and then was out of bullets.  He grabbed a knife–some part of his mind told him it was a kitchen knife not his fighting knife–and went after them.

He was eventually overwhelmed and put down, cuffed hands behind him putting strain on his shoulder… blood dripping from the scalp wound… John suspected he had other injuries but with the adrenaline he couldn’t tell.

Sebastian was cuffed hands and feet, being pushed down into the floor… breathing labored.  One of the men kicked him and he barely moved.

“Cowards!” John snarled.

“Hardly,” the voice of Mycroft Holmes snapped John’s head around. “They are trying to save your life.”

~

Mycroft Holmes had already sent messages demanding to know exactly what kind of farce the training of this supposedly superior strike team had been.

The orders had been simple: capture Moriarty’s agent without letting him harm Watson.

Not only had the idiot in charge panicked when the agent entered the Baker Street flat–apparently by invitation– but the surprise attack had caused Watson to join Moriarty’s man in defense… and two men–one of them a rather short, disabled, army doctor– had killed three of his men outright, and wounded eight more severely enough that their survival was in serious question.

There was a term beneath goldfish, for idiocy like this.

Mycroft was finally informed that the scene was secure and went up.  His brother’s belongings were scattered and broken, and Watson was bleeding and snarling at the men.  One of them was kicking the prisoner.

“Cowards!” Watson snarled, trying even now to lunge at them.

“Hardly. They are trying to save your life.” Mycroft looked about and sighed, “And doing an extremely poor job of it.”

“These are YOUR people attacking my friend and breaking into my home? I swear Mycroft I will–”

“THIS is not a friend, Doctor, but one of Moriarty’s men–I’ve been working on undoing the failsafes he left behind: this man was sent to kill you.”

“You have no God damn CLUE what was going on, Mycroft!  And as usual you didn’t bother to ask, now let me treat him before your assholes kick a rib into his lungs!”

Mycroft bristled at the idea that John Watson thought he knew better than he did. “He will be treated in a secure environment, John.  This man is one of Moriarty’s–” Watson’s phone rang with Sherlock’s ring tone.

John’s head snapped over in shock and Mycroft had it retrieved.

“Sherlock? Ah, so one of your spies did have a means of contacting you.” _If I had thought of it I might have done this deliberately, ah well._

“What are you doing, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was very low and very dangerous–Mycroft pictured a darkened room and a bloody body.

“Arresting one of Moriarty’s people–unquestionably the man assigned to kill Doctor Watson, although he doesn’t appear to believe me.”

John yelled loudly, “We had an agreement you intolerable PRICK!  If he got contacted first he was going to call me, I AM a doctor, if you recall… now let me see how badly injured he is!”

Moriarty’s man simply said, “I’ve had worse.”

Sherlock’s voice went soft and velvety, “Mycroft…You have ten minutes to get any of your people that you don’t want to die away from my flat.  You will let John tend to whoever that is–”

“On the contrary, Sherlock: I’m taking him to be interrogated–” Sherlock hung up.

Watson was snarling threats, but Mycroft ignored him. _Ten minutes?  What could Sherlock possibly do in ten minutes, call his army of ruffians?_  Mycroft pulled out his phone, “be on the alert for any unexpected personnel–and my brother of course.”

He looked back at the two men–Watson glaring death at him–he would need medical attention himself– and the other man: sniper, killer, ex-military… looking back at him with eerily calm eyes… _He hates me and it’s very personal…_

“Very well, let’s get them…out…” Mycroft felt abruptly dizzy, and heard a faint hissing sound…

He turned toward the windows–too late.

~

Sherlock moved fast, but two of Mycroft’s perimeter men tried to capture him–they weren’t expecting Jim, however. One went down with a spray to the face, one with a knife in the hip before he got sprayed.

“Jim!” Sherlock didn’t stop moving.

“He won’t die, Sherlock–probably.”

Sherlock took the stairs fast–Jim nearly as fast– and came in to a group of men sprawled unconscious on the floor.  Sherlock saw the amount of blood and froze… several people had died here.  His brother was unharmed, John was in handcuffs and down, bleeding, and there was a…

Jim had gone straight for a man with a spectacular bruise developing across his cheek.

“Sebastian…?” Jim touched the man with shocking gentleness.

“Jim… Search him for tracers.” Sherlock started searching john quickly, removing his brother’s bugs as he found them. “We’ll take them all back–I have fairly good medical there… and the antidote.”

 


	14. in a white room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sebastian, and Mycroft wake up... lets just say it's tense.  
> (hubby is still unable to proof read, all mistakes are on me)

John woke up with Sherlock’s voice saying, “I’ve given you the antidote, you will be a bit disoriented but it should pass quickly.  Your wounds looked superficial, and I cleaned and bandaged the cuts, but I was hesitant to try any further treatment.”

“Yes, yes, fine!” snarled Moriarty’s voice, “But is he able to be a doctor yet or do I have to call one of my people?”

“Sherlock?” John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking worriedly down at him–and apparently quite well.

“Yes John?”

“I’m going to punch your face in once this is settled.”

Sherlock chuckled, “I have no doubt. Can you get up?”

John got up, wincing.  He looked around: there was a very plain white room, with a wrought iron bed, and two cots… the wrought iron bed had Mycroft on it… in restraints? Sebastian was in the other cot–not in restraints–and Moriarty was pacing around the room angrily:  he looked fine. There were a couple of chairs and a small table, and a doorway into a bathroom? And a locked door…

John looked over at Sherlock who was standing next to his cot, “You… look okay… he looks okay…?”

“Why would you think otherwise?” Sherlock asked curiously. “But can you please look at Jim’s fellow?”

“You mean his Watson? Sure.  Mycroft’s men were kicking him and I think he got tasered.”

Moriarty growled something about skinning him and then stared at John, “how do YOU know him?”

“Sebastian and I had a long talk.” John snorted. “Apparently the care and feeding of lunatic geniuses is fairly consistent although apparently you don’t sulk so much as stab things.”

John enjoyed the dumbfounded look on Moriarty immensely as he started checking out Sebastian.

~

Sebastian woke up expecting a jail cell… not John’s face looking down at him. “In addition to everything else you probably have a broken rib, but it seems to be in place… I’ll need X rays to be certain–still, uh, don’t move too much?”

“He’s not a complete idiot!” _Jim…_

Sebastian felt his tension ease. “Oh thank God… Boss?”

Jim came over and was frowning down at him–he looked a bit puffy, but… the circles under his eyes were better.

“You… you’ve been sleeping enough?” Sebastian frowned and tried to make sense of it.

“Is that unusual?” John asked.

“Yes.” Said Sebastian, Jim, and Sherlock Holmes in unison.

Sebastian sat up slowly and carefully with John helping him.  Jim was looking aggravated at him.

“Can you take pain medication?” Sherlock asked, “And John? Do you need any?”

“I think best to stick to the mild stuff, yeah?” John nodded.

“I’ll get it.” Jim grumbled and walked into what looked like a bathroom.

“Where… are we?” John looked around, “and why is Mycroft … um… restrained to a bed–and naked I think?”

Jim came out with a bottle of Paracetamol and Sherlock brought them cups of water.

“He’s naked because we had to check everyone for tracers,” Sherlock said, “and because it seemed only fair.”

Jim smiled darkly, “I could show you some of my knifework darling… he’ll scar beautifully.”

John tensed and Sebastian looked wary but Sherlock just shrugged, “I believe if anyone was going to do so I would have family privilege–so no.”

“Sir?” Sebastian was looking back and forth between them.  He took the medication Jim handed him, “I’ve had worse, I can handle–”

“Shut up.” Jim glared at him.

“I have to give Mycroft the antidote or he’ll wake up puking.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “If both of you are alright?”

“Let him wake up puking!” Jim snarled.

“He’s restrained flat on his back, he’d choke–and we discussed this.” Sherlock put a small bottle into Mycroft’s nostril and puffed it twice.

“That was before!”

“Yes, well… he’s still my brother and I still think he was trying to do what he thought was best–however misguided.”

~

Mycroft woke up listening to his brother calmly responding to Moriarty’s threats and pleas to be allowed to take “just a bit of skin off him?”

“No. So are you going to introduce me to your sniper?”

“I hadn’t planned to.” Moriarty sounded a bit sulky.

John’s voice, “Sherlock? Sebastian Moran–Sebastian, I think you know Sherlock.”

_Sebastian Moran?  Oh that was very very bad: top notch sniper, discharged, became a mercenary and then vanished, presumed dead…_

“Yeah, kind of,” The sniper’s voice, “Uh…Boss? Can you put the knife down?”

“What were you DOING there anyway?!” Moriarty snarled.

Mycroft opened his eyes slowly.  Moriarty was pacing back and forth–apparently unharmed, and armed.  His brother was sitting in a chair looking amused… Watson was sitting in a chair near sniper Moran, who was on a cot–both of them bandaged…

_And I’m restrained to a bed, lovely._

~

“A good question.” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “You two came to some kind of agreement?”

Sebastian looked wary, and Jim glared at him, “Answer that!”

“I went to the flat to see if Watson knew where either of you were–all it took was one look to know he didn’t.”

John sighed, “He looked about as bad as I felt, so we ended up talking.  Yes, we came to an agreement–first one of us to hear any news would call the other…” he glared at Sherlock, “and part of that because I am a doctor, I thought ONE of you two would need it.”

“Do stop listening to my brother, John.”

Sebastian ducked his head and looked like he expected to be knifed as he said, “We each promised to help the other one get… get HIS lunatic out safely… assuming you were both alive.”

Jim stared at him in disbelief, “do I pay you to THINK Sebastian?”

“Yes, actually, you do.” Sebastian grumbled.

“I left ORDERS!  You were part of my safety protocols you idiot!”

Sherlock interrupted smoothly, “Which my brother was obviously trying to dismantle, weren’t you Mycroft?”

Everyone turned, most of them with expressions of surprise, as they realized he was awake.

Mycroft was extremely unhappy that he appeared to be the only person restrained in the room, but  kept his voice calm as he answered, “Of course I was. I… didn’t expect Moriarty to survive the week, and even if he did…”

Sherlock just sighed. 

Jim snorted, “Your brother has been quite reasonable, other than… one misunderstanding.”  Sherlock winced. “And the only reason you still have a tongue, Mycroft, is because of dear Sherlock’s insistence that you are his problem first.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out, “You’re just cranky because you like the bed, Jim.”

Jim sniffed, “of course I like the bed; it’s comfortable.”

“I’m lost,” John sighed, “You?” he asked Sebastian.

“Totally.” Sebastian answered and then looked hopefully at Jim.

Sherlock was the one who answered however, “This is Jim’s room.  It was mostly empty so it had room for the two extra cots–Mycroft is on his bed.”

Both men stared at the restraints, and John in particular looked at the box attached to the far side of the headboard.

Mycroft sighed, “Which doesn’t explain anything, Sherlock.” He lay still, not attempting to pull on the restraints, but his eyes moved steadily over the room.

“Did you have fun chasing the antique woodworking tools shipment?” Sherlock asked acidly. “You HONESTLY believed I would use that on anyone, much less JIM?”

John put two fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. “Gentlemen,” he glanced thoughtfully around, “or whatever… all I know is that Sherlock and Jim left for a week that was supposed to be…as if I believe this… Sherlock being a sadist and… cutting Jim up?”

“Seriously?” Sebastian stared at John and then at everyone else… “I thought it was just sex…”

“If only.” Muttered Mycroft.

Jim brightened up, “Sherly…? How about if I get Mycroft for a week? I’ll return him, I promise…”

“no.” Sherlock said calmly and with no apparent reaction. “Do I take it you didn’t tell your fellow the parameters of our agreement?”

“Of course not! It’s not anyone else’s business! All he had to know was when I was supposed to show up!”

John sighed, “Great, Sherlock wouldn’t tell me, you wouldn’t tell him… how the hell are we supposed to keep you two alive if you never tell us anything!” John’s voice had risen to a shout.

Sherlock looked a bit guilty, “I was protecting you.”

Mycroft added drily, “from Moran, there, actually.”

Jim snorted, “Sebastian is my best.”

Sebastian visibly lit up from the praise.

“So are you going to unlock me, brother? Or am I going to be another example in the family registries?”

Sherlock snorted, “You believe the most ridiculous things, Mycroft.”

“He went after my people, Sherlock…” Jim was smiling pleasantly and it made the hair on almost all of their necks stand up.

Sherlock stood up and strode forward to stand almost chest to chest with Jim. “Yes, yes he did…but if we are going to make this work… then you are going to work WITH me on settling this.”

Jim stood with a knife clenched in his left hand and his teeth bared looking up at Sherlock. “I want–”

“Do you really want to have a full discussion of this in front of everyone?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “because I will.”

Much to Sebastian’s utter shock, Jim backed down. “Fine!” he snapped putting the knife away. “We’ll discuss it. So what now?”

 


	15. who cares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> debts and payments.
> 
> (My husband is still too ill to proof read, all errors my own)

“What now.” Mycroft sighed, “That is, indeed the question.” He looked at Moriarty again, “You seem to be favoring one leg slightly, but otherwise you are in… astonishingly good shape–as is Sherlock.”

Sherlock walked over and unlocked Mycroft’s wrists and ankles from the bed. When Mycroft rather quickly grabbed the sheet to keep himself covered Sherlock said, “Consider yourself fortunate that I left you a sheet, Mycroft–I am not in a good mood.”

“How many of my other people did this bastard get to?” Jim glared, “And why is he getting the padded collar anyway?”

“Because the padded one is adjustable and the solid steel one isn’t.” Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t wear the same size.”

“So are you two just going to act like an old married couple or are you going to explain anything?” John was pinching the bridge of his nose again.

“Uh… John… don’t rile the boss up, he gets…”

“I get WHAT, Sebastian?” Jim growled at him.

“Knife happy?” Sebastian said trying not to look like he was cringing backward.

Jim paused, “oh… yeah. Well that’s true.” He glanced at Mycroft, “He’d look good with a few more scars Shirly.”

“Probably, and no.” Sherlock looked around again. “John? …Sebastian? Please stay in this room and do NOT harm Mycroft.  Jim and I have to deal with a few things.”

Sherlock took Jim firmly by the elbow and walked him out.

Sebastian’s mouth dropped open and he stared after them in shock–“did you see that?  Seriously does the knock out shit cause hallucinations?!”

Mycroft sat up slowly, feeling a tension line on his neck, “This was Moriarty’s bed…” he said slowly, “and one presumes his restraints… and my brother appears to be…”

“The boss is listening to him?  He barely listens to me!”

John just sighed, “Right. Hold on.” He walked into the bathroom and looked around–the cold packs were fairly obvious: he grabbed a few and came back.

“Reasonably good medical in there, but no sharps.” He handed Sebastian a cold pack for his ribs.

“Sherlock was…going to cut up my boss?  I’d say that was impossible but he’s…”

“Crazy?” suggested Mycroft with an eyebrow raised.

Sebastian looked at him darkly, “I’d love to watch him work you over…”

“Given the scars on your torso, I assume he already worked you over as you put it.”

John blinked and looked back–he’d been busy dealing with trauma but he had noticed that some of the scars looked odd: now he looked again.  Sebastian had the usual combat wounds, certainly, and quite a number  that… looked more deliberate.

“Moriarty did that?” John asked.

“Not the ones on my front, no.” Sebastian shook his head. “Most of this predates my working for him.” he hesitated and then reluctantly added, “The boss likes his knives, though.”

“So does my brother, which leaves me even more perplexed at their current situation…”

Mycroft then spent a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes sitting wrapped in a sheet and wearing a collar, while two very angry ex-military men glared at him.

Sherlock and Jim walked back in, Sherlock carrying a bundle of cloth.  No matter how he looked at it or analyzed it they both seemed extraordinarily well–albeit Moriarty did appear to be deferring to Sherlock to some extent.

“These should fit you.” Sherlock said, handing a pair of pajama pants to Mycroft. He then walked over to John and Sebastian, “here, since we cut your shirts off.” And handed them what appeared to be oversized t shirts.

“Are… are you alright, Sir?” Sebastian asked.  Mycroft looked at the man again… _that was personal concern?_ He looked at Moriarty… slowly he turned his head to look at Watson…

“Yes, Mycroft, Jim cares about Sebastian and I expect it’s mutual.”

“How very peculiar…” Mycroft blinked and tried to assess the value of the man as a leash on Moriarty.

“Jim doesn’t care about me except in so far as I make sure he eats.” Snorted Sebastian.

Jim looked at Mycroft with the flat deadly look he only had twice in interrogation, “Anything happens to Sebastian, Mycroft,” he said very quietly and levelly, “and I will take my time peeling your skin off no matter what Sherlock says.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “Jim and I already came to an agreement, Mycroft: which could include Jim not taking any more jobs that conflict with mine, or  possibly with yours… however that agreement  is dependent on  each side leaving the other’s important people strictly alone.”

“Your brother is clearly going to be a problem, Sherlock.” Jim’s hand kept creeping toward his knife.

Mycroft frowned and tried to make sense of this: somehow the men working for Sherlock and Moriarty had become allies, and somehow Sherlock had convinced Moriarty to… not retire, but step back?

“I do not need to cause your sniper any difficulties,” Mycroft said slowly, “If you are not causing any difficulties…”

“You already came close to killing him,” Jim raised an eyebrow, “and how many of the rest of my people have you arrested or killed already.”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock– _no support at all_ – “Thus far we had arrested two–in one case their family is also being held–two others died in the attempt to–”

Jim’s jaw clenched, “I want him dead, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly and opened them. “What will it cost me to put this aside? Other than obviously having your people given medical treatment and released.”

Mycroft caught the implication immediately, “why should you pay for–”

“Because he’d kill you–he wouldn’t kill me.”  Sherlock looked steadily at Jim. “Well?”

“That depends entirely on who’s dead, and how badly hurt Sebastian is.”

Mycroft sighed and named the dead, “I have no idea how injured your man is, but he and Watson both seem to be able to glare at me equally. I will point out that several of my men have been killed in this already.”

Sherlock chuckled, “As if you care about any of those pawns? None of them matter Mycroft, so stop comparing them to our two.”

Sebastian was looking increasingly confused, “but… he… boss?”

“What!?” Jim snapped at him.

“Why is everyone acting like you give a damn about me?”

“Because I do, now shut up.”

Sebastian’s mouth dropped open.

John started to say something and Sherlock said calmly, “The relationship we have with each of you is… different… than our relationship.  That does not mean it is not valued–each of us has taken rather extreme measures to try to ensure your safety, in fact.” He glanced at Jim, “I believe we may need to sit down and talk to them–after we manage this.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and back to Jim. “So what will it cost me?”

“I’m not MAD AT YOU!” Jim shrieked, “Its HIM that caused this!”

“And as I said, my brother may be nearly intolerable, but he is doing this because he cares–however misguided it may be.”

“I would rather deal with any consequences myself…” Mycroft said watching Jim’s hand flex near the knife and feeling insanely cornered.

John spoke up, “Okay… um… no one makes good decisions when they are this upset, right?  Can we… head to neutral corners for a bit and cool off?

“A REALLY good idea,” Sebastian said quickly. “Is there… I think I need to talk to my boss…”

Sherlock looked over at Jim, “There really is only your room, my room, the play area, and a few storage and workplaces…”

“I’ll take him into the playroom.” Jim nodded and looked at Sebastian. “Can you get up?”

“Yeah, I’m just sore.” He winced getting off the cot, “Okay I’m a lot sore.”

Jim started the motion to reach out to Sebastian and then spun on his heel and walked to the door.

“First six digits, Fibonacci backwards.” Sherlock said as Jim approached the door.

Jim nodded, punched in the numbers and walked out.

Sherlock sat down and sighed, “This is going to hurt.”

“I didn’t expect him to be alive, even now–certainly not as well as he is… **of course** I was using the time to try to stop his failsafes.” Mycroft tugged on the collar in annoyance. “But you shouldn’t–”

“If I am very fortunate he will calm down after speaking to Sebastian.”

“So are they… together?” John frowned, “I hadn’t thought they were…”

“I expect, much like the two of us, they have not had an honest discussion of… Jim’s interests.” Sherlock sighed, “which means if they are having sex it has been… superficial.”

“You… are interested… in me..?” John looked dubious, “what happened to married to my work?”

“I’m a sadist, as I am certain my brother told you–” Sherlock glared at his brother, “Trying to run you off no doubt.”

“On the contrary I find Doctor Watson has been quite good for you.” Mycroft snapped.

“No he didn’t, not really.”  John shook his head. “I translated your note and demanded answers.”

Sherlock blinked, “how could you–”

“Google translate, but I could have called Greg–honestly why do you act like no one can...  Anyway, you… YOU? Are a sadist?  And… like knives?” John looked first frustrated and then dubious.

“Yes, and you aren’t even comfortable with the concept of sex with a man so why harm a valuable friendship?”

John muttered, “There is not enough to drink for this conversation.”

“I tend to agree.” Mycroft sighed, “So what happens to me?”

“That depends entirely on Jim’s answers when he comes back.”


	16. Anything to declare?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sebastian have a chat...  
> no one actually pulls any knives.

Sebastian followed Jim into a room that… well it was meant for doing a lot of things, none of which he could picture Jim… well okay he could picture Jim  but in charge… and… uh…

“Do you have a problem, Moran?”

“No?”  Sebastian saw the tense frown and braced, “Please don’t hit me right now, Boss, if you expect me to be able to–”

“WHY WERE YOU THERE?!” Jim screamed suddenly, “You let them TRAP you!”

“I was being followed. I didn’t know who and I didn’t want to lead them back to any of our holdings… and I’d talked to John…” he took a breath and winced at the pain in his ribs, “I told him I was being followed as soon as I got there… he told me to hang out and … then they broke in with a full strike team.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Moran.” Jim growled.

“Uh…” there were two chairs near the fireplace but they looked cushiony, “I don’t think soft squishy chairs are good for my ribs…”

“That has padding and its firm.” He pointed at something with attachment points.  Sebastian looked at it very dubiously and sat down on it… carefully. He wasn’t at all sure whether Jim might decide to tie him to something in here.

Jim looked around and snorted, “Damn he’s got taste. Didn’t get a good look with all the lights on.”

“You… um…and Sherlock?  I thought…” he trailed off because Jim was glaring at him.

“Say it.”

“You let HIM hit YOU?”

“We had a bet…” Jim was growling.

“Well… you… aren’t hurt. Uh.. could you… not do that without me on duty?”

Whatever Jim had expected to hear that wasn’t it. “What?”

“What if… I mean he could have REALLY hurt you, boss.  First you let Mycroft…” an appalled horrified look crossed Sebastian’s face. “Please tell me you don’t get off on… oh hell you do…” Sebastian put his hand over his face.

“You have a problem with that?” Jim asked sweetly with his hand going for his knife.

“YEAH I have a problem with you endangering your damn LIFE!” Sebastian suddenly snarled and moved.  Jim abruptly found his knife hand grabbed and twisted behind his back. “Fine! you get off on being hit? Then you damn well have a bodyguard  on standby in case they don’t back OFF!”

“Take your hands off me or you lose them, Moran.”

Sebastian let him go with a shove. “All this time I thought you got off on hurting other people!”

“I do.” Jim raised an eyebrow at him.

“–and making me fucking miserable!”

“not always.” Jim’s eyes were unreadable, “Don’t step out of line, Moran.”

“I’m your defense, SIR,” He stood there with his fists clenched. “Do you have any idea how useless I felt when you got grabbed last time? When you vanished and I had no idea what was going on? Then you show back up broken in too many places and it’s a DAMN good thing we still had the nurse… and you did that DELIBERATELY?!” _I’m going to throttle him. I’ll die. I don’t care._

“Oh for… NO, Sebastian, I did not get myself picked up by Mycroft bloody Holmes deliberately!” Jim stalked over to the mock fireplace and started poking around, “God damn it why doesn’t he have anything to drink in here?”

“You… didn’t?” Sebastian stood there trying to work the urge to  beat the man to death with a chair out of his system.  “You were chained to that bed.”

“Only at night… and fuck it it was comfortable–the knock out shit he gave me was good too.” Jim threw himself into a chair and then hissed.

And with that the urge to hit him vanished. “You ARE hurt…” Sebastian narrowed his eyes and walked over.

“Just a few cuts on my leg and torso… nothing deep.” He waved his hand off dismissively. _Sebastian looked about ready to field strip me for inspection_.  Jim forced the comforted feeling down.

“uh huh…” Sebastian very evidently didn’t believe him.

 _Oh for fuck…“_ The only thing that broke the skin was the knife and… he used some needle play. Seriously… no big deal, all sterile and shit.”  Jim grumbled, “He needs some work but he’s damn good with ropes and a riding crop.”

“You walked into this,” Sebastian waved at the room, “You agreed to this?”

“I was BORED!”

Sebastian covered his face with one hand.  _Bored… he was bored…_ “For fuck sake couldn’t you get Irene to–”

“You have GOT to be kidding… I wouldn’t trust that bitch as far as you could throw her–she blackmails people!”

“How am I supposed to keep you safe then?!”

“Well not with Irene!”

“One of your guards?”

Jim just stared at him.

“Alright, yeah I can see that wouldn’t work, but…”

“Are you going to suggest you do it?” Jim was going to stab something.

“Jesus, no.”

“Think it’s too sick?” Jim was thinking pleasantly about setting Sebastian on fire.

“I think if I tried to hurt you deliberately I would end up on my knees apologizing.”

“…what?”

“Just what I said.  Unless you do something this idiotically risky again and I finally snap!  I have no idea where they get the idea that you… that you care, but I sure as hell care about you and… I couldn’t do it.”

“…why the fuck would you care about me?”

“Suicidal I guess?”

Jim snorted. “You care about me because I pay you extremely well to do so.”

“You could not possibly PAY me enough to put up with you!” Sebastian started shouting again and apparently couldn’t stop, “You are the most brilliant, insane, egotistical, self-absorbed nightmare of a boss I have ever  even imagined, and I love your sick ass! If this was just for the money I would have killed you and retired to the Bahamas years ago!”

 _I didn’t just hear him…_ “Sebastian… did you just…”

Sebastian realized what he’d just said and flinched, but he pulled himself upright and looked at Jim, “Yeah, fine… laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing, that’s the stupidest most idiotic thing you could have done, falling for me–I’ll destroy you.”

“yeah.” Sebastian shrugged. “I always knew that.”

“You aren’t a masochist.”

“No. I’m not a sadist either; I just like to kill people… well I like doing it well…” Sebastian’s eyes got a bit distant, “there’s… it’s not sexual.” He looked back at Jim. “You fucked me a couple of times to prove your point–it’s… I would have killed anyone else for that.”

Jim got up and walked over to him. “Unfortunately everyone else in that room already figured this out.”

“That I love you? Yeah.”

Jim felt like hooks were tearing into him. “That it’s mutual.”

Sebastian suddenly couldn’t breathe… he stood there rather stupidly unable to inhale, wondering if somehow this was… was he actually dying?

Jim slapped him.

“uh… but you…” he blinked down at the man and a corner of his mouth quirked up, “you… you?”

Jim gritted his teeth, “I heard your voice on the phone and it HURT…I saw you lying there and I wanted to kill everyone.  I want to skin Mycroft Holmes and wear him as a fucking suit!  I love you and I feel like my heart is hanging out and someone is going to stab it and I HATE IT!”

Sebastian got the strangest grin on his face, “That’s…” he shook his head and started laughing and then held his ribs and winced, “

“And unfortunately Mycroft knows which means he will USE that!”

Sebastian pulled himself upright again, “so can I kill him now?”

“I don’t know.” Jim snarled, “Sherlock is right–he’s probably the only one I can trust to… we each need things and we can make it work.” He looked at Sebastian, “even if you COULD hurt me, I couldn’t let you.”

Sebastian nodded slowly, “It wouldn’t be… very comfortable, no.  Sherlock won’t… well I guess he didn’t hurt you.”

“He took great pains not to DAMAGE me,” Jim corrected. “He also expressed a willingness to let me play with my knives on him…”

“ **That** interest doesn’t surprise me, not after what you did to my back.”

“…I was upset.” He glared at him, “why the hell did you let me do that anyway?”

“Because I turn into an idiot around you? and even if I’m not a masochist…” Sebastian got quieter, “well… you were paying attention to me.”

Jim put his head into one hand, “You are severely fucked up.”

Sebastian stared at him, “… from the man who let Sherlock cut him up with a knife.”

“I never said I wasn’t!”

“So… what now?”

“We need to deal with Mycroft, I need to kill the man who was kicking you, and I need to finish negotiations with Sherlock.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> while not based on or "inspired by" the works of SilusLocke and x57 i must admit that their view of the Holmes family and mine seem to have come to the same conclusions in many of my fics. (i created the Holmes family of Smooth Criminal before reading their work.)  
> however  
> the specific fascination for blood Sherlock has in this fic might have been inspired by "Echoes" or "A progression through Fear" by SilusLocke, x57 and so i feel obliged to nod in their direction.


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